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Photographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


33  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  NY.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


di 


c<%^ 


W, 


Ux 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


di 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notas  tachniques  at  bibliographiquas 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
original  copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this 
copy  which  may  be  bibliographically  unique, 
which  may  alter  any  of  the  images  in  the 
reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


n 


n 


n 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 

Covers  damaged/ 
Couverture  endommagde 

Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaur6e  et/ou  pelliculie 

Cover  title  missing/ 

Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 


□    Coloured  maps/ 
Cartes  gi^ographiques  en  couleur 

D 


Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
ere  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 


Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 
Planches  et/ou  illust..''tions  en  couleur 


□ 


Bound  with  other  material/ 
Relid  avec  d'autres  documents 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

La  reliure  serree  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  intirieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajouties 
lors  dune  restauration  apparaissent  dans  le  texte, 
mais.  lorsque  cela  dtait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  it6  filmdes. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  suppl^mentaires: 


L'Institut  a  microfilm^  le  meilleur  exemplaire 
qu'il  lui  a  itt  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details 
de  cet  exemplaire  qui  sont  peut-Atre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite.  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  mAthode  normale  de  filmage 
sont  indiquAs  ci-dessous. 


D 

n 

D 
D 
D 


Coloured  pages/ 
Pages  de  couleur 

Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommag^es 

Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Pages  restaur6es  et/ou  pelliculdes 

Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 
Pages  d^color^es,  tachetdes  ou  piqu^es 

Pages  detached/ 
Pages  d6tach6es 


I     ~y  Showthrough/ 
Lrd    Transparence 


I      I    Quality  of  print  varies/ 


n 

D 


Quality  indgale  de  I'impression 

Includes  supplementary  material/ 
Comprend  du  materiel  supplementaire 


Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Edition  disponible 

Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalement  ou  partiellement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  4ti  filmies  A  nouveau  de  faqon  ci 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  U\m6  au  taux  de  reduction  indiqu6  ci-dessous. 


10X 

14X 

18X 

22X 

26X 

30X 

J 

J 

12X 

16X 

20X 

24X 

28X 

32X 

e 

Stalls 
s  du 
lodifier 
r  une 
Image 


The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

Douglas  Library 
Queen's  University 

The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  qualitv 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


L'exemplaire  film6  fut  reproduit  grAce  A  la 
ginArosit*  de: 

Douglas  Library 
Queen's  University 

Les  images  suivantes  ont  6t6  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  netteti  de  rexemplaire  filmA,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  whan  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
firiyt  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprimAe  sont  filmis  en  commenqant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
derniire  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  salon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  filmAs  en  commenpant  par  la 
premiere  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernlAre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  — »>  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END  "), 
whichever  applies. 


Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
derniire  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  ^^>  signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  le 
symbole  V  signifie  "FIN". 


Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  dtre 
film6s  A  des  taux  de  reduction  diff^rents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  ciichA,  il  est  filmd  d  partir 
de  Tangle  supArieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  nAcessaire.  Les  diegrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mAthode. 


errata 
to 


pelure, 
>n  d 


n 


32X 


1 

2 

3 

1    i  . 

:    i    : 

• 

4 

s 

6 

I 


rr 


1 


^ 


y/f/ 


Zbe  IJomance  ot  a  3e0utt  Aission 


\VA 


the 


Romance  of  a  jc$«ir  mission 


a  Iblatorlcal  novel 


JBg 


^«  :«3ourcbicr  Sanforc* 


i^<! 


«  aH8  7  East  mtUcntb  Sttett 


f    ^ 


V 


X 


t    w    r    •  f    I        ^^/^     i__j  r  •  ^  f     /J 


I' 

I 


fi 


CepsHflbt,  1807,  bv 
«be  Sihcr  A  Zv^Xox  Companv 


TROW  DIHCTORY 

MIINTINa  AND  ■OOKIINOINa  OOMMNT 

MW  YORII 


"Co  tb« 

•Kcv.  mmim  s.  Vain6tott>,  ©.©. 

'"  ^"^^""'on  Of  tbc(r  1R.v«e„cc  for  .„^  s,„,p,.b» 
M'Jtb  tbe  Earnest  jfaitb  of  mcv  «cn.  tbcuflb 
't  be  not  in  BII  ma^e  <„  Hccort  wUb 
Ubcir  Own 


\ 


preface 

The  ancient  country  of  the  Hurons  is  now  the 
nortliern  and  eastern  portions  of  Simcoe  County, 
Ontario.  It  Hes  within  the  peninsula  formed  by 
the  Nottawasaga  and  Matchedash  bays  of  Lake 
Huron,  the  River  Severn,  and  Lake  Simcoe.  In 
this  area  the  sites  of  more  than  a  hundred  Huron 
villages  have  been  located.  The  Hurons  were  in- 
cessantly harassed  by  hostile  tribes,  and  were  com- 
pelled to  move  from  one  place  to  another  for  safety. 

The  first  intention  of  the  Jesuits  was  to  form  per- 
manent missions  in  each  of  the  principal  Huron 
towns,  but  before  the  close  of  the  year  1639  they 
were  obliged  to  relinquish  this  idea.  They  there- 
fore established  a  central  station  as  a  base  of  opera- 
tions, as  a  residence,  fort,  magazine,  and  hospital. 
The  site  is  near  the  present  town  of  Midland  on 
Gloucester  Bay,  not  far  from  the  little  River  Wye. 
Sainte  Marie,  as  represented  in  its  ruins  to-day,  is 
the  oldest,  and,  with  the  exception  of  the  remains 
of  the  fort  on  Isle  St.  Joseph,  the  only  work  of  its 
kind  in  the  Province  of  Ontario.  The  Canadian 
Institute  has  taken  steps  to  insure  the  preservation 
of  the  relics  of  this  monument. 

7 


i 


vl 


h 


8 


preface 


Of  the  mission  and  the  Fathers  Parkman  speaks 
as  follows: 

"On  two  sides  the  fort  was  a  continuous  wall  ^i 
masonry,  flanked  with  square  bastions,  and  proba- 
bly used  as  magazines,  storehouses,  or  lodgings. 
The  sides  toward  the  river  and  lake  had  no  other 
defence  than  a  ditch  and  palisade,  flanked,  like  the 
others,  by  bastions,  over  each  of  which  was  dis- 
played a  large  cross.  The  buildings  within  included 
a  church,  kitchen,  refectory,  places  of  retreat 
for  religious  instruction,  and  lodgings.  Beyond 
the  ditch  or  canal  which  opened  on  the  river 
was  a  large  area,  still  traceable,  in  the  form  of  an 
irregular  triangle,  surrounded  by  a  ditch,  and  ap- 
parently by  palisades.  It  seems  to  have  been  meant 
for  the  protection  of  the  Indian  visitors  who  came 
in  throngs  to  Sainte  Marie,  and  who  were  lodged  in 
a  large  house  of  bark,  after  the  Huron  manner. 
Here,  perhaps,  was  also  the  hospital,  which  was 
placed  without  the  walls,  in  order  that  Indian 
women,  as  well  as  men,  might  be  admitted  to  it." 

"A  life  sequestered  from  social  intercourse,  and 
remote  from  every  prize  which  ambition  holds 
worth  the  pursuit,  or  a  lonely  death,  under  forms, 
perhaps  the  most  appalling — these  were  the  mis- 
sionaries' alternatives.  Their  maligners  may  taunt 
them,  if  they  will,  with  credulity,  superstition,  or  a 
blind  enthusiasm;  but  slander  itself  cannot  accuse 
them  of  hypocrisy  or  ambition,"  M.  B.  S. 


i 


f 


Contenta 


I. 

II. 

III. 

IV. 
V. 
VI. 
VII. 
VIII. 
IX. 
X. 
XI. 


XII. 

XIII. 

XIV. 

XV. 

XVI. 


A  Mysterious  Arrival  . 

KiSHIK   AND   NiALONA 
LtON  DE   ClIAROLAIS 

Seeking  a  Clew 

Life  iv  the  Palisades    . 

The  MissioNAFciEs  and  Their  Flock    . 

L^ON  Receives  Notice  of  Baniskmenp 

Last  Words  with  Br^heuf  . 

Father  Br^beuf  Visits  Dorothy 

The  Iroquois!  The  Iroquois! 

Martyrdom.    Farewell  Message  of  Br£. 

BEUF      . 

The  Search  for  the  Dead 

Anxious  Times 

In  Peril  in  the  Ruins 

Barred  Out 

■        •       . 

A  Feast  of  the  Dead 

9 


PAGU 
II 

»9 

29 

36 

48 

55 

64 
72 
84 


94 
100 
106 
no 
119 
129 


111 


■i| 


lO 


Contents 


XVII. 
XVIII. 

XIX. 
XX. 

XXI. 

XXII. 
XXIII. 
XXIV. 

XXV. 

XXVI. 

XXVII. 

XXVIII. 

XXIX. 

XXX. 

XXXI. 

XXXII. 

XXXIII. 


The  Departure  from  Sainte  Marie 

On  the  Isle  St.  Joseph.     Ren£  Seeks 
Dorothy's  Confidence 

The  Insolence  of  Hauteroche 

Washaka     Makes      the     Charge     of 


Treachery    

An  Escape  and  a  Meeting 

Tempted  in  the  Wilderness  . 

Dorothy's  Confession 

The  Return  of  the  Wanderers  . 

Departure  of  Li^on  and  Bressani  for 
Quebec  

A  Dreary  Winter     .... 

Brother  Ren^     

Abandonment  of  the  Huron  Mission 

Dorothy  in  Peril     .... 

An  Unexpected  Visitor  . 

LEON'S  Successful  Quest 

A  Forest  Celebration     . 

To  Him  that  Overcometh 


PAGE 
167 

'79 
191 

201 

216 

225 
229 
236 

245 
251 
265 
274 
281 
287 


■A   ^ 


Z\)C  IRomance  of  a  3cmlt  flMddion 


I 


H  /l^^8terious  Hrrival 

Beyond  the  border  of  the  forest  there  was  a  wide 
clearing,  and  far  across  this  clearing  was  a  fortifica- 
tion, from  which  the  lights  gleamed  through  the 
swiftly  falling  snow.  It  was  the  central  station  of 
the  Jesuits  of  the  Huron  Mission — Fort  Sainte 
Marie. 

On  this  winter  night  of  the  year  1649,  the  Fa- 
thers, who  had  gathered  from  their  scattered  mis- 
sions to  attend  one  of  the  periodical  councils  at  the 
fort,  had  assembled  in  the  refectory  of  the  resi- 
dence. They  had  spent  the  day  in  devotion  and 
consultation,  and  were  now  seated  about  a  long 
table  made  of  rough  boards.  At  another  table  sat 
the  members  of  the  household — soldiers,  traders 
and  laborers. 

As  this  was  a  festive  occasion,  there  was  on  each 
table  a  large  dish  of  venison,  a  rare  treat.  Instead 
of  bread,  there  were  coarse  cakes  of  pounded  maize; 
the  vegetables  were  baked  squash,  and  a  mixture 


12      Xlbe  IRomance  ot  a  ^eautt  /l^i^ston 

of  corn  and  beans,  like  succotash.  The  everyday 
fare  was  sagamite,  composed  of  pounded  maize, 
boiled,  and  seasoned  with  scraps  of  smoked  fish. 

The  Father  Superior,  Paul  Ragueneau,  sat  in 
the  place  of  honor.  At  his  right  was  Father  Bres- 
sani,  whose  scarred  visage  bore  witness  to  his 
trials  as  a  pioneer  of  the  Faith.  Near  him  were 
Jean  de  Brebeuf  and  Gabriel  Lalemant,  from  the 
Mission  of  St.  Ignacc.  There,  too,  were  the  schol- 
arly Noel  Chabanel,  the  gentle  Charles  Garnier,  and 
their  colleagues,  eighteen  in  all. 

A  silence  had  fallen  upon  them,  for  Joseph  Chau- 
monot  had  announced  that  he  had  seen  Antoine 
Daniel,  the  martyr  missionary  of  St.  Joseph,  seated 
in  his  place,  that  had  been  left  vacant.  His  coun- 
tenance, so  said  Chaumonot,  was  radiant  and  ma- 
jestic, and  the  Fathers  believed  that  the  spirit  of 
the  proto-martyr  had  appeared  to  them,  to  inspire 
them  to  endure  to  the  end. 

Though  the  night  was  cold,  the  rudely  built  hall 
was  warm  and  cheerful,  for  great  blazing  logs 
crackled  in  the  stone  fireplace.  Presently  the  mis- 
sionaries began  to  recall  experiences  in  their  earlier, 
unsubstantial  houses,  and  in  the  bark  lodges  of  the 
Hurons,  where  the  smoke  of  the  fires  had  no  outlet 
but  a  hole  in  the  roof;  and  where,  with  inflamed 
and  streaming  eyes,  they  had  spent  many  even- 
ings, trying  to  study  by  the  dim  light  of  smoky 
fires. 


B  Apsterious  Hrriv^al 


13 


hall 
logs 
mis- 

Irlier, 

If  the 
itlet 

Imed 
ren- 

[oky 


The  conversation  at  the  other  table  was  ani- 
mated, but  the  voices  were  subdued,  lest  they  dis- 
turb the  priests. 

Presently  a  laborer  remarked,  "Jules  Venette  is 
long  absent ;  yet  he  said  he  would  haste  to  return 
for  his  supper." 

"It  may  be  the  wind  had  forced  open  the  church 
doors,"  said  Pierre  Mounier,  another  laborer.  "I 
will  place  his  portion  and  the  boy's  by  the  fire;  so 
they  have  not  cold  fare." 

Notwithstanding  the  protection  of  the  walls,  the 
wind  roared  within  the  fort,  and  the  drifts  were 
high,  so  Jules  and  a  boy,  Bernard  Gautier,  had  been 
sent  out  to  see  if  the  windows  and  doors  of  the 
church  were  securely  fastened,  and  to  sweep  away 
the  snow  if  any  had  drifted  in.  After  attending  to 
their  errand,  the  two  had  passed  the  gate  that 
opened  toward  the  forest. 

"Jules,"  pleaded  the  boy,  "open  the  gate  and 
look  out.      I  want  to  see  how  high  the  drifts  rise." 

Jules  wished  to  return  to  the  warmth  of  the  hall; 
but  he  yielded  to  Bernard's  plea  and  opened  the 
gate. 

Some  of  the  drifts  were  almost  even  with  the 
tops  of  the  walls. 

"It's  well  for  us,"  said  Jules,  "that  no  Iroquois 
have  been  seen  of  late;  for  were  they  near  us  now, 
they  would  pack  the  snow  and  scale  the  wall." 

He  stood  in  silence  for  a  moment,  and  looked 


14     Ube  IRomance  of  a  Jesuit  /Disdion 


toward  the  forest.  Presently  he  clutched  the  boy's 
arm,  and  said,  in  a  hoarse  whisper,  "  Bernard,  look! 
What  see  you?" 

Bernard,  peering  through  the  snow-wreaths  to  a 
drift  a  few  yards  distant,  saw  an  object  that,  to  his 
terrified  eyes,  appeared  to  be  of  gigantic  propor- 
tions. 

He  stood,  almost  paralyzed  with  fear.  Then 
Jules  seized  him,  and  drew  him  within  the  gate. 

When  the  gate  closed  there  came  a  sound  that 
chilled  the  blood  in  their  veins — a  shrill,  agonized 
wail — minglmg  with  the  howling  of  the  wind,  it 
seemed  like  the  cry  of  an  animal  in  its  death-throes. 

"  Jules,  Jules,  what  is  it?  "  Bernard  spoke  in  a 
low,  awed  tone,  as  if  he  feared  the  dread  thing 
might  hear  him. 

Jules  crossed  himself.  "  I  know  not  what  it  is. 
It  is  not  of  human  form,  and  I  fear  it  will  bring  evil 
to  this  place." 

The  pair  made  their  way  to  the  residence  as 
quickly  as  they  could.  But,  in  his  haste,  Bernard 
tripped  and  twisted  his  foot  under  him.  When 
Jules  helped  him  to  rise,  he  limped,  and  was  obliged 
to  go  slowly. 

The  cry  came  to  their  ears  again,  but  it  was 
weaker. 

"Jules,"  whispered  the  boy,  "it  is  the  voice  of  a 


woman." 
"Hush! 


I  tell  you  it  is  nothing  human.    The 


I, 


B  nD^6teriou0  Brrlv>al 


15 


J I 


creature  is  full  ten  feet  high.  Saw  you  not  its  mon- 
strous size?" 

When  they  reached  the  kitchen  Bernard  sank  on 
a  bench,  and  Jules  took  off  his  moccasin  and  bound 
the  maimed  foot.  Then,  supporting  the  limping 
boy,  he  entered  the  hall. 

One  of  the  priests  was  making  an  address,  and 
every  one  was  listening,  so  Jules  must  defer  his  tale. 
The  Superior  motioned  to  him  to  seat  himself  be- 
side Bernard,  and  finish  his  interrupted  meal. 

In  the  cheerful  blaze  of  the  fire,  with  his  com- 
rades about  him,  and  satisfying  food  before  him,  the 
creature  of  the  snow  began  to  assume  less  formid- 
able proportions.  Was  it  possible  that  the  strange 
shape  had  been  formed  from  the  snow-flakes  by  the 
wind?  Was  the  terrible  cry  only  the  voice  of  the 
storm?  He  could  not  readily  believe  that  he  and 
his  companion  had  been  so  deceived;  yet  he  foresaw 
that  he  might  bring  on  himself  the  ridicule  of  his 
comrades  by  his  tale  of  a  phantom,  and  he  was  glad 
that  the  long  address  gave  him  time  for  considera- 
tion. 

He  had  just  whispered  to  Bernard  to  say  nothing 
about  the  monster  when  there  came  a  knocking 
at  the  door.  Huron  visitors  sometimes  arrived 
late  in  the  night;  but  the  sound  was  neither  the 
rough  pounding  of  a  warrior,  nor  the  timid  tapping 
of  a  Huron  girl.  It  had  a  fine,  but  penetrating 
quality. 


%  I;- 


n 


f  1 


1 6     XTbe  IRomancc  ot  a  ^cduit  /Diasfon 


Every  eye  turned  to  the  door,  but  no  one  rose, 
and  no  word  of  welcome  was  uttered.  It  was  evi- 
dent to  every  man  that  no  ordinary  visitor  stood 
without. 

The  faces  of  Jules  and  Bernard  grew  ghastly. 

The  rapping  was  repeated,  accompanied  by  a  low, 
moaning  sound. 

"The  gates  are  closed,"  said  Father  Ragueneau. 
"I  know  not  how  a  stranger  could  come  within  the 
fort.  Yet  some  poor  wanderer  may  seek  shelter 
this  bitter  night ;  and,  whether  it  be  friend  or  foe, 
we  should  not  refuse  it.  Take  arms,  my  sons,  lest 
this  be  a  snare;  then,  Victor  Caradeuc,  open  the 
door  with  caution." 

The  men  seized  the  weapons  that  were  always  at 
hand,  and  stood  on  the  defensive,  while  Victor  un- 
barred the  door.  He  had  intended  to  look  out  cau- 
tiously, but  the  object  that  confronted  him  so  un- 
nerved him  that  he  threw  the  door  wide  open,  and 
the  creature  staggered  into  the  hall. 

Some  gazed  in  silence.  Others  drew  back,  and 
made  the  sacred  sign,  as  if  to  ward  away  some  evil 
thing.  Here  and  there  were  heard  exclamations 
of  awe  and  wonder. 

The  visitor's  eyes  glanced  from  one  to  another; 
its  lips  muttered  unintelligible  sounds. 

Brebeuf  left  his  place,  and  strode  toward  it.  As 
he  approached,  it  lifted  up  its  hands,  as  if  with  a  last 
effort,  and  fell  heavily  on  the  floor. 


' 


« 


MMMi^nMHlM 


ittt0>i^^m>',    n:^.^.^^^  - 


I 


'i 


a  Ai?dteriou9  Hrrit^al 


17 


The  Fathers  drew  near,  but  their  steps  were 
strangely  light,  as  if  they  were  not  treading  the 
solid  floor.  The  members  of  the  household,  at 
greater  distance,  peered  eagerly.  The  shorter  ones 
tiptoed  to  look  over  the  shoulders  of  their  compan- 
ions. 

The  form  moaned,  gasped  feebly,  then  lay  silent. 

Brebeuf  stooped,  raised  it  in  his  strong  arms,  and 
bore  it  to  a  bench  which  was  covered  by  a  robe  of 
bear  skin. 

The  hesitancy,  induced  by  wonder,  had  been  but 
of  momentary  duration.  The  strange  visitor  ap- 
peared to  be  in  sore  distress,  and  the  Fathers  were 
anxious  to  do  what  they  could  to  relieve  it. 

The  face  now  upturned  to  the  light  was  that  of 
a  young  girl,  and,  though  pallid  and  pinched  with 
cold,  its  rare  beauty  was  apparent.  The  brilliant 
eyes  were  half  closed.  Some  locks  of  hair  had  es- 
caped from  their  coil  beneath  the  hood,  and  hung 
to  the  ground.  They  were  stiff  with  crusted  snow, 
to  which  clung  fragments  of  bark  and  pine  needles. 
When  the  hood  was  removed  the  hair  shone  in  the 
firelight  with  a  rich  golden  hue,  with  a  tinge  of  red. 
The  tattered  skirt  was  heavily  encrusted  with  snow. 
The  boots  showed  rents  and  gashes  made  by  rough 
travel.  A  heavy  cloak  enveloped  the  upper  part 
of  the  body,  and  had  probably  saved  the  girl  from 
freezing. 

The  Superior  directed  the  men  to  leave  the  room. 


1 8     xrbc  IRomancc  ot  a  Bcsnit  /IMssion 

The  crowding  toward  the  couch  hindered  the  min- 
istrations to  the  sufferer. 

No  wonder  that  these  men  had  at  first  looked 
upon  the  visitor  as  a  supernatural  being.  No  white 
woman  had  ever  been  within  the  walls  of  Sainte 
Marie;  as  far  as  they  knew,  not  one  had  been  within 
hundreds  of  miles  of  that  mission.  Some  of  them 
had  not  seen  the  face  of  a  countrywoman  for  years. 
And  how  had  such  a  fragile  creature  come  through 
the  forest  in  midwinter  by  a  route  whose  hardships 
had  tested  the  endurance  of  strong  men? 

The  Fathers  knelt  by  the  couch,  removed  the 
torn,  wet  boots,  and  chafed  the  frost-touched  feet 
and  hands. 

Brebeuf  went  to  the  room  without,  and  directed 
one  of  the  traders,  "Victor  Caradeuc,  go  quickly 
with  Rene  le  Breton  to  the  lodge  of  Kishik.  Tell 
her  of  the  arrival  of  this  young  stranger,  and  bid 
her  and  Nialona  bring  warm  clothing  to  replace 
her  frozen  garments.  Then  return  here  with  both 
women.  Should  the  girl  become  conscious,  she 
may  be  comforted  by  their  presence,  though  they 
be  of  darker  skin." 


I 


/: 


11 
*ftl0bfft  anO  TUtilona 

The  lodge  occupied  by  Kishik  and  her  grand- 
daughter was  situated  outside  the  fort  in  a  triangu- 
lar-shaped piece  of  ground  enclosed  by  palisades. 
There  was  a  hospital  in  this  enclosure,  and  there 
were  larger  dwellings,  for  the  old  men,  women  and 
orphan  children,  whom  the  Fathers  had  gathered 
there  for  protection  and  instruction.  At  one  side 
were  two  or  three  bark  lodges  of  great  length,  for 
the  reception  of  visiting  Hurons.  Other  buildings 
were  of  rough  boards  or  logs. 

When  the  messengers  knocked  at  Kishik's  door, 
a  girl's  voice  asked,  in  good  French,  "  Who  is  with- 
out?" 

^  The  manner  of  the  knock  informed  her  that  the 
visitor  was  not  an  Indian. 

"  Caradeuc  and  Le  Breton,"  said  Victor.  "  We 
bring  a  message  from  the  Superior." 

The  girl  opened  the  door  and  revealed  a  small 
room,  whose  furniture  had  evidently  been  made  in 
the  wilderness  with  imperfect  tools. 

An  old  woman  had  been  dozing  on  a  rug  which 
lay  near  the  table.    A  chair  stood  beside  the  table 

19 


20     ube  IRomance  ot  a  Jesuit  /Didsion 

for  her  use;  but  partial  civilization  had  never  over- 
come her  early  habit  of  squatting  on  the  floor.  On 
state  occasions,  such  as  a  visit  from  one  of  the 
Fathers,  she  sat  upright,  and  very  uneasily,  in  her 
chair. 

The  girl  had  been  reading  by  the  dim  Hght  of  a 
dip  candle,  and  her  book  lay  open  on  the  table. 

She  wore  a  blanket  dress,  loosely  made,  and 
girded  at  the  waist  by  a  band  formed  of  strips  of 
deer  skin,  interwoven  with  colored  bristles.  A  simi- 
lar band  decorated  the  neck.  Her  black  hair  was 
neatly  braided  in  two  long  plaits  that  hung  below 
the  belt.  Her  speech  and  movements  indicated 
that  she  had  been  accustomed  to  civilized  life. 

In  the  year  1631,  Kishik,  with  Nialona,  then  an 
infant  of  a  few  months,  had  been  rescued  from  a 
band  of  Iroquois  in  the  neighborhood  of  Quebec. 
Their  captors  had  murdered  all  the  other  members 
of  their  family.  The  Frenchmen,  who  had  taken 
them  from  the  Iroquois,  put  them  in  charge  of  the 
Jesuits,  who  sent  them  to  a  convent  in  France,  and 
there  they  passed  seventeen  years.  They  were  hap- 
py years  to  Nialona,  who  had  known  no  less  re- 
stricted life;  but  Kishik  found  them  most  weari- 
some. She  could  not  adapt  herself  to  civilization, 
and  her  devices  to  evade  the  efforts  of  the  good 
nuns  for  her  improvement  tried  their  patience  sore- 
ly. Nialona  was  a  bright  and  diligent  pupil.  When 
she  had  reached  the  age  of  eighteen,  she  was  sent 


'! 


■IMMMi 


fcidbtft  anD  flialona 


21 


back  to  Canada  with  her  grandmother,  and  was 
soon  afterward  called  to  the  Mission  of  Sainte 
Marie,  to  assist  in  teaching  Huron  women  and  chil- 
dren. 

"  ^lademoiselle  Nialona,"  said  Victor,  "  a  stran- 
ger, a  woman,  has  come  to  the  fort  through  the 
storm.  The  Superior  directs  you  to  find  dry,  warm 
clothing  for  her,  and  to  return  with  us." 

Kishik  rose  and  held  her  head  as  if  listening  to 
the  howling  of  the  wind.  "Her  own  lodge  should 
hold  her  this  night,"  she  grumbled. 

Nialona  at  once  busied  herself  in  making  up  a 
bundle  of  clothing.  When  she  had  done  so,  she 
wrapped  Kishik  warmly,  and  sent  her  out,  leaning 
on  the  arm  of  Rene  le  Breton.  She  put  out  her 
light,  and  followed  with  Victor. 

She  had  not  doubted  that  the  stranger  was  a 
Huron  woman.  She  had  often  been  called  to  min- 
ister to  squaws  or  their  children  who  had  arrived 
at  the  fort  pleading  for  aid.  On  the  way  from 
the  palisaded  enclosure,  she  questioned  Caradeuc. 
"What  brought  the  stranger  here  at  this  hour?" 

Caradeuc  was  reticent.  He  wished  to  see  Nialo- 
na's  surprise. 

The  snow  had  drifted  in  great  heaps  across  the 
path,  and  more  than  once  Nialona  plunged  waist 
deep  in  a  drift.  Caradeuc  offered  her  the  support 
of  his  arm,  and  was  dehghted  by  her  acceptance; 
mindful  of  her  convent  training,  she  received  any 


'K 


ji; 


■iM 


^99 


92     XTbe  l^omance  ot  a  Jesuit  Aiddion 

advances  from  the  young  men  of  the  mission  with 
much  dignity  and  reserve.  The  Christian  girls 
within  the  paHsades  were  strictly  guarded,  and 
were  seldom  permitted  to  receive  a  visit  from  one  of 
the  soldiers  or  traders  without  the  surveillance  of 
a  priest.  Caradeuc  appreciated  his  opportunity, 
and  would  gladly  have  taken  advantage  of  it  by 
avoiding  the  short  cut  to  the  fort,  or  by  lingering 
in  the  drifts;  but  the  urgency  of  the  case  compelled 
haste.  Kishik,  plodding  slowly,  had  not  reached 
the  fort  when  Caradeuc  knocked  at  the  door  of  the 
refectory. 

The  door  was  opened  by  one  of  the  priests,  and 
the  young  man  followed  Nialona  into  the  room. 

The  stranger  lay  on  the  couch,  moaning  faintly. 

Nialona  did  not  see  her  face  till  she  was  almost 
beside  her.     Then  she  exclaimed  in  astonishment. 

The  attending  priest  held  up  his  hand  in  warning. 

"How  beautiful,  how  beautiful!"  said  the  Indian 
girl  in  a  low  voice.  "I  thought  to  see  one  of  our 
own  people." 

"Did  not  Monsieur  Caradeuc  explain?" 

Caradeuc  smiled.  "Pardon  me.  Father;  I  planned 
a  little  surprise;  yet  wc  have  brought  the  clothing. 
It  is  here." 

Nialona  longed  to  ask  questions,  but  her  training 
enabled  her  to  restrain  the  expression  of  curiosity. 
She  went  to  the  door  to  inform  Kishik  that  the 
stranger  was  a  white  girl.    Kishik  received  the  in- 


Ikidbift  and  flialonn 


23 


< 


formation  in  her  usual  stolid  way.  Her  early  life 
had  been  marked  by  tragic  incident;  the  arrival  of 
a  stranger  was  a  matter  of  little  account  to  her. 
She  was  more  interested  in  the  cheerful  fire  and  the 
remains  of  the  feast  on  the  table.  But  she  listened 
with  docility  to  the  instructions  of  the  priest,  and 
when  she  was  left  alone  with  Nialona  and  the  pa- 
tient, her  aged  hands  were  gentle  enough  in  remov- 
ing the  ice-crusted  clothing,  from  which  the  water 
was  dripping  to  the  floor. 

Presently  the  girl  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  at 
Nialona  in  ai  appealing,  bewildered  way.  Nialona 
kissed  her  forehead,  hoping  to  comfort  her.  The 
pale  lips  quivered,  as  if  some  memory  were  stirred. 
The  Indian  maid  spoke  soothing  words,  and  stroked 
the  stranger's  face  gently,  and  soon  she  lay  quiet 
again,  and  apparently  unconscious. 

On  account  of  the  storm,  the  Fathers  had  de- 
cided that  she  should  not  be  removed  to  the  hospi- 
tal. So  the  couch  was  made  soft  by  additional 
rugs,  a  bed  was  prepared  for  Kishik  in  a  corner,  and 
Nialona  had  a  fur  rug  and  blankets  on  the  floor 
beside  her  patient.  A  screen  was  drawn  before  the 
fire,  and  a  night  lamp,  formed  of  a  floating  wick  in 
a  tiny  vessel  of  oil,  was  placed  so  it  should  not  dis- 
turb the  g^rl. 

Nialona  was  awakened  from  a  light  doze  by  a 
footstep  in  the  room.  She  started  up  and  saw  a 
young  man  who  had  not  been  present  at  the  even- 


»    < 


24     Zbc  IRomance  ot  a  Sesuit  /Dissfon 


ing's  feast.  He  had  gone  out  of  his  way  to  pursue 
a  lurking  foe,  and  having  returned  very  hungry,  had 
come  to  the  refectory  in  search  of  food.  He  looked 
about  him  in  astonishment;  then,  perceiving  that 
Nialona  was  awake,  stepped  lightly  toward  her  to 
inquire  who  was  ill. 

'*Hush!"  whispered  Nialona.  "It  is  a  stranger,  a 
girl  who  came  in  this  night,  laden  with  snow,  and 
with  clothing  torn,  as  if  from  a  long  journey.  But 
whence  she  came,  no  one  knows;  and  she,  being  in 
delirium,  cannot  tell  us." 

At  that  moment  the  girl  moved,  then  suddenly 
raised  herself  and  sat  up.  She  looked  about  her 
for  a  few  moments  in  a  bewildered  way  until  her 
glance  fell  on  young  Leon  de  Charolais;  a  gleam  of 
intelligence  lighted  her  face,  and  she  looked  at  him 
as  if  she  recognized  a  friend.  His  face  flushed, 
then  paled;  there  was  an  expression  in  her  eyes  of 
tinist,  of  appeal,  that  deeply  moved  him.  Presently 
she  swayed.  Nialona  put  her  arm  about  her,  and 
laid  her  gently  down.  Her  eyes  closed,  and  she 
lapsed  into  unconsciousness. 

De  Charolais  looked  at  her  for  a  few  moments, 
then  turned  abruptly,  and  left  the  room. 


.1 


fl 


III 
Xeon  &e  Cbarolafe 

From  childhood  De  Charolais  had  wished  to  be  a 
soldier,  to  be  valorous  in  arms,  like  other  men  of 
his  noble   house.       His  mother,  devoted    to    the 
Church,  tried  to  persuade  him  to  become  a  soldier 
of  the  Faith  rather  than  an  officer  in  the  army  of 
France.    But  her  plea  was  without  effect  till  she  lay 
on  her  deathbed;  then,  when  she  sent  for  him  and 
besought  him  to  grant  her  last  request,  to  permit 
her  to  pass  from  earth  in  joy  instead  of  mourning, 
he  made  a  solemn  vow  that  he  would  soon  enter  his 
studies  for  the  priesthood,  and  would  never  turn 
back  or  fail  in  his  promise.    His  heart  rebelled;  but 
he  compelled  himself  to  submission.    The  duties  as- 
signed to  him  in  his  novitiate  were  repugnant  to 
him;  but  he  did  them  thoroughly,  as  far  as  outward 
act  was  concerned.    He  could  not  stimulate  in  him- 
self any  of  the  enthusiasm  or  religious  zeal  that  he 
saw  in  others.     His  heart  reached  out  toward  the 
life  he  had  relinquished;  but  his  will  was  strong;  he 
disciplined   himself  rigorously,  and  succeeded  in 
keeping  his  reluctant  feet  in  their  path,  his  unwill- 
ing hands  to  their  service. 


I 


26     XTbe  IRomance  ot  a  Jesuit  /Dtsston 

When  he  was  yet  a  student,  before  he  had  taken 
priestly  vows,  he  was  ordered  to  the  Jesuit  Mission 
in  North  America.  His  father  at  first  sought  to 
obtain  a  remission  of  this  sentence  of  banishment. 
He  had  but  two  sons,  and  Leon,  the  younger,  was 
his  favorite.  He  had  felt  keenly  the  necessary  sepa- 
ration when  Leon  entered  the  novitiate,  and  the 
boy  had  deplored  the  loss  of  his  father's  compan- 
ionship, and  had  used  every  opportunity  to  renew 
it.  His  father  was  his  ideal.  But  after  a  consulta- 
tion with  the  General  of  the  Order,  in  which  Caiaffa 
promised  to  recall  the  young  man  in  two  or  three 
years,  if  his  conduct  should  justify  it,  the  father 
withdrew  his  plea. 

Why  did  the  Society  of  Jesus  send  a  youth  of  the 
temperament  of  De  Charolais  to  the  work  of  a  mis- 
sion in  the  wilderness?  That  Society  knew  its  men. 
It  knew  that  this  one  had  not  the  spiritual  devotion 
that  had  enabled  others  cf  similar  nature  to  curb  it, 
or  transform  it  to  spiritual  power.  He  longed  for 
the  life  of  court  or  camp,  and  in  that  longing  lay 
danger.  In  the  outdoor  life  of  the  mission,  in  the 
fascinating  element  of  peril,  his  energies,  his  rest- 
less, uncompliant  disposition,  would  find  a  vent 
which  could  not  be  given  in  the  Old  World.  To  the 
laborious  missions,  the  Society  usually  sent  men  of 
tried  virtue;  but  it  sometimes  found  it  expedient 
to  transport  a  troublesome  member  to  a  remote 
country. 


'i 


Xeon  t>c  Cbarolaid 


27 


Every  year  that  Society  made  a  list  of  its  houses 
and  members;  in  which  the  names,  talents,  virt- 
ues and  faiHngs  of  each  were  recorded.  In  the 
course  of  training,  instruction  was  skilfully  adapted 
to  the  bent  of  the  individual.  One  of  the  Generals, 
alluding  exultingly  to  his  philosophers,  mathema- 
ticians, and  orators,  exclaimed:  "And  we  have  men 
for  martyrdom,  if  they  be  required !  " 

The  men  who  had  been  sent  to  the  Huron  Mis- 
sion were  men  for  martyrdom,  heroic  and  devoted, 
and  from  among  the  purest  of  their  order. 

No  charge  of  any  serious  moral  failing  had  ever 
been  made  against  De  Charolais;  and,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  some  boyish  pranks,  he  had  outwardly 
kept  the  law  of  obedience,  but  the  authorities  dis- 
cerned the  inward  revolt,  which  might  at  any  time 
become  active.  They  represented  to  the  General 
that  his  tendencies  might  be  repressed  or  diverted 
by  the  life  in  the  Huron  Mission ;  and  Caraffa,  who 
was  much  interested  in  the  brilliant  youth,  ordered 
him  there,  in  the  hope  that  his  waning  faith  might 
be  renewed  and  his  better  nature  developed  by  as- 
sociation with  the  devoted  missionaries. 

For  some  time  after  his  arrival  he  appeared  de- 
spondent, but  the  despondency  passed  away  under 
the  invigorating  influences  of  his  new  environment; 
his  natural  buoyancy,  which  he  had  for  years  en- 
deavored to  repress,  rose  and  asserted  itself  un- 
checked.   He  was  soon  the  most  popular  man  in 


28     XTbe  IRomance  ot  a  Bcsrxlt  AMssion 

the  mission.  His  genial  comradeship,  his  high  spir- 
its, wit,  and  good  humor,  endeared  him  to  the  sol- 
diers and  traders.  His  fine  physique  and  manly 
strength  won  the  admiration  of  the  young  Indians, 
and  they  were  always  ready  to  leave  their  gambling 
games — a  source  of  much  uneasiness  to  the  good 
Fathers — for  a  race  or  a  wrestle  with  their  hero. 
The  Fathers  turned  this  devotion  to  good  account, 
and  punished  unruly  Indian  boys  by  forbidding 
them  to  join  in  these  recreations,  or  rewarded  them 
by  the  promise  of  an  outing  with  their  friend.  He 
had  learned  many  Huron  words  on  his  voyage 
across  the  Atlantic,  from  copies  he  had  made  of 
documents  that  had  been  sent  over  by  the  mission- 
aries, and  was  soon  able  to  converse  with  his  Indian 
companions.  So,  though  the  priests  regretted  his 
lack  of  spiritual  fervor,  they  found  him  a  willing 
and  useful  assistant,  and,  at  the  earliest  opportunity 
sent  a  satisfactory  report  to  their  General. 

On  his  part,  De  Charolais  was  well  pleased  with 
his  new  supervisors,  and  frankly  contrasted  their 
mutual  trust  and  good-fellowship  with  the  espion- 
age that  had  been  a  continual  source  of  irritation 
to  him.  He  became  specially  attached  to  Father 
Brebeuf,  and  spent  much  time  with  him  at  St. 
Ignace. 

At  the  time  of  the  arrival  of  the  mysterious  stran- 
ger, he  had  been  nearly  a  year  in  the  Mission,  and 
had  never  given  the  missionaries  any  grave  anxiety. 


i 


1' 


IV 


i\<^ 


Seefttng  a  Clew 

The  early  morning  was  clear,  and  there  was  little 
wind.  Before  dawn  laborers  had  removed  the  drifts 
from  the  paths,  and  the  sick  giri,  carefully  covered 
from  the  cold,  was  carried  on  a  stretcher  to  Kishik's 
lodge.  She  would  be  more  comfortable  there  than 
in  the  hospital.  Should  she  regain  consciousness, 
she  might  be  disturbed  by  the  squaws  and  sick  chil- 
dren if  she  were  placed  in  the  ward  of  the  Indian 
women. 

Jules  Venette  had  cautioned  Bernard  not  to  men- 
tion to  any  one  that  they  had  looked  through  the 
gateway  and  seen  a  strange  figure.  But  Bernard's 
nature  was  not  adapted  for  keeping  secrets,  and 
he  confided  the  tale  to  Laurent  Girot,  who,  in  turn 
repeated  it  to  Pierre  Mounier,  and  it  finally  came 
to  the  ears  of  the  Fathers. 

Jules,  in  his  terror,  had  not  fastened  the  gate 
firmly,  and  the  high  wind  had  forced  it  open  far 
enough  to  admit  the  slight  form  of  the  giri.  Jules 
was  admonished  for  his  carelessness.  Any  skulking 
Iroquois  might  have  entered  in  the  same  way  But 
on  the  other  hand  Jules  consoled  himself  with  the 

29 


■^^^^m 


30     Ube  IRomance  of  a  Jesuit  flDission 


reflection  that  had  the  gate  been  firmly  fastened 
the  girl  would  probably  have  perished  in  the  snow. 

Several  men  went  out  to  try  to  trace  her  foot- 
prints, but  the  drifts  had  covered  them.  Beyond 
the  discovery  of  the  open  gateway,  nothing  was 
added  to  what  they  already  knew.  She  had  re- 
tained sufficient  consciousness  to  enable  her  to 
seek  a  shelter,  and,  when  she  had  succeeded,  had 
fallen  into  stupor. 

It  seemed  probable  that  she  had  been  captured 
by  Iroquois,  and  had  escaped  from  them.  In  that 
case,  they  might  be  in  the  neighborhood;  so  men 
were  detailed  to  keep  watch.  The  members  of  the 
household  were  instructed  to  be  silent  regarding 
the  white  stranger  when  they  were  beyond  the  con- 
fines of  the  fort.  Kishik  and  Nialona  were  cau- 
tioned to  keep  the  Huron  women  for  the  present 
out  of  their  lodge.  Washaka,  a  Christian  Huron 
girl,  was  taken  into  confidence,  in  order  that  she 
might  help  Nialona  to  care  for  the  patient.  It  was 
in  the  interests  of  secrecy  that  the  Fathers  had  or- 
dered the  removal  of  the  sick  girl  to  Kishik's  lodge 
before  the  people  in  the  palisades  had  risen. 

At  intervals,  for  several  days,  Huron  warriors 
and  French  soldiers  brought  in  reports  of  Iroquois 
lurking  in  the  forest.  The  palisades  were  guarded 
night  and  day,  and  arrangements  were  made  to 
move  the  women  and  children  to  the  fort  if  an  at- 
tack seemed  imminent.    But  no  attack  was  made, 


I. 


QcMm  a  Clew 


31 


7i 


I 


and  the  ambushed  men  disappeared.  Probably 
their  force  was  too  weak  to  attack  Sainte  Marie. 
The  Fathers  had  hoped  that  the  Hurons  would 
capture  some  of  the  enemy,  from  whom  they  might 
learn  how  the  young  stranger  had  been  brought 
from  the  white  settlements;  but  they  were  disap- 
pointed. 

Notwithstanding  the  important  questions  of 
missionary  effort  which  the  Fathers  discussed  in 
council,  the  chief  interest  of  the  household  centred 
in  the  patient.  But  days  passed  and  she  did  not  re- 
cover consciousness;  so  the  missionaries  left  for 
their  scattered  stations  without  receiving  any  solu- 
tion of  the  mystery. 

After  lying  in  a  stupor  for  some  time,  she  began 
to  mutter  and  rave,  but  her  words  were  in  a  tongue 
that  was  not  intelHgible  to  Nialona;  and  it  hap- 
pened that  when  any  of  the  priests  came  in  to  in- 
quire about  her  condition  she  was  silent. 

At  last  she  fell  into  a  natural  sleep.  The  Fathers 
knew  that  the  crisis  was  near.  She  might  pass 
away  without  waking;  she  might  rouse  from  sleep, 
but  without  a  restoration  of  reason,  and  sink  into 
the  torpor  of  approaching  death;  but,  should  she 
awake  conscious,  she  would  probably  live,  unless 
her  strength  had  been  exhausted. 

A  priest,  skilled  in  medical  lore,  was  watching  be- 
side her  when  she  opened  her  eyes,  and  he  lifted  up 


'li 


'!^^fsSfS'^:'iiitmi*ifft:'>iiiim.  i*arw«flTa»a 


mm 


\ 


32     ube  IRomance  of  a  Jesuit  /RMssion 

his  heart  in  thanksgiving,  for  the  light  of  reason 
was  in  them. 

She  looked  at  him  in  a  bewildered  way,  and,  evi- 
dently, with  some  alarm. 

"  You  have  been  ill,"  he  said,  answering  the  ap- 
peal of  her  eyes;  "  and  we  have  taken  care  of  you. 
We  hope  you  will  be  better  soon." 

She  shook  her  head  slowly,  as  a  sign  that  she  did 
not  understand.  She  had  never  heard  the  French 
language  spoken. 

Presently  she  said  in  English.  "  This  place — I 
do  not  know  it.    All  is — so  strange." 

The  priest  had  never  studied  English,  and  for  a 
few  moments  he  was  at  a  loss.  The  girl's  expres- 
sion was  so  perplexed,  so  pathetic,  that  he  not  only 
pitied  her,  but  feared  her  distress  might  cause  a 
relapse. 

He  repeated  a  prayer  in  Latin.  If  she  was  a 
Catholic,  it  would  be  familiar  to  her.  But  her  face 
was  troubled  and  anxious  as  before.  That  too  was 
an  unknown  tongue. 

A  thought  occurred  to  him.  De  Charolais  was  a 
linguist.  He  could  speak  English  and  German,  and 
it  appeared  probable  that  the  stranger  was  English. 
He  called  Nialona,  told  her  of  the  difficulty,  and 
set  out  in  search  of  the  young  man. 

De  Charolais  was  at  the  Mission  of  St.  Louis, 
three  miles  away,  but  a  messenger  was  sent  to  bid 
him  hasten  to  the  fort.    Meanwhile  Nialona  had 


Seebing  a  Clew 


33 


I 


tried  to  soothe  her  patient,  and  had  persuaded  her 
to  take  some  nourishment;  but  she  was  working 
herself  into  an  excited  condition  by  her  vain  at- 
tempts to  make  herself  understood  when  De  Charo- 
lais  was  announced. 

Nialona  had  propped  her  up  slightly  and  wrapped 
her  in  a  loose  garment  of  a  soft  blue  shade.  Her 
waving  golden  hair  was  loosely  braided,  the  color 
of  her  gown  accented  the  deep  blue  of  her  eyes,  ex- 
citement had  deepened  their  brilliancy  and  sent  a 
flush  to  her  cheeks.  De  Charolais  thought  he  had 
never  seen  any  one  so  beautiful. 

He  sat  down  and  said  to  her  in  English.  "You 
have  been  very  ill,  and  we  have  nursed  you.  We 
are  your  friends.  Do  not  fear,  no  one  shall  harm 
you." 

Her  face  flushed,  paled,  and  quivered,  and  she 
burst  into  violent  sobbing,  which  sorely  embar- 
rassed Leon. 

Nialona  came  and  put  her  arms  about  her,  petted 
and  soothed  her,  and  presently  she  said,  weakly,  "  It 
is — for  joy — I  wept.  I  feared  that  never  might  I 
hear  my  own  tongue  again." 

"We  are  French,  but  I  and  others  have  learned 
the  English  tongue,"  replied  De  Charolais.  He 
remembered,  and  the  recollection  gave  him  pleas- 
ure, that  at  present  he  was  the  only  EngHsh  speak- 
ing man  at  the  fort. 

"How — came  I  here?" 


34     tCbe  IRomance  of  a  Jesuit  /ftission 


; 


"On  a  cold  and  stormy  night  you  arrived,  well- 
nigh  frozen,  at  our  doors;  not  here,  but  at  the  fort 
beyond,  where  our  priests  live  that  they  may  teach 
the  Indians.    You  were  ill,  very  ill,  and  exhausted." 

She  lifted  her  hand  to  her  forehead,  as  if  trying 
to  recall  something. 

"Do  not  think,  do  not  trouble  now,"  he  said 
gently.  "  When  you  are  strong  you  will  tell  us  of 
yourself." 

She  fixed  her  eyes  intently  on  him.  "In  the  for- 
est— that — terrible  night " 

She  shuddered  and  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands. 

"We  will  not  speak  of  it  now.  Let  no  thought 
trouble  you.  With  us  you  are  safe.  We  will  care 
for  you.    Trust  us." 

She  smiled  sweetly.  "  I  do  trust  you.  You  are 
like — so  like " 

She  gave  a  pitiful  sigh,  and  her  voice  broke.  She 
was  very  weak,  and  he  feared  she  was  going  to  cry 
again.  He  rose  nervously,  and  said,  "  I  must  leave 
you  now  with  your  good  nurse.  She  is  of  Indian 
birth,  as  you  see,  but  she  lived  in  France  many 
years.  She  knows  well  how  to  care  for  you.  Her 
name  is  Nialona.  She  says  she  wants  to  be  your 
sister.  Say  to  her, '  Nialona,  "ma  soeur,'  she  will  un- 
derstand." 

The  girl  repeated  it,  and  her  voice  was  sweet, 
"  Nialona,  ma  soeur." 


QcMrxQ  a  Clew 


35 


Nialona's  face  gleamed.  She  said  a  few  words  to 
De  Charolais. 

"She  asks  you  to  tell  her  your  name,"  he  said  to 
the  stranger. 

"My  name  is  Dorothy." 

The  young  man  repeated  it  to  the  Indian  girl. 
Then  she  knelt  by  the  bedside,  took  the  wasted 
hands  in  hers,  and  said,  "Dorothy,  Dorothy,  ma 
soeur,  ma  soeur." 

De  Charolais  was  loath  to  leave  them.  When  he 
moved  away,  Dorothy  cried,  appealingly:  "  But— 
you  will  come  again.  You— you  only  can  speak 
to  me." 

"Yes,  I  will  come  again." 


Ix 


<ll 


Xfte  in  tbe  paUsa^ea 

Some  of  the  Huron  lodges  in  the  palisades  were 
very  long  buildings,  with  partitions  of  poles  and 
bark  separating  the  inhabitants  into  families.  This 
was  an  improvement  on  the  ordinary  Indian  dwell- 
ing, in  which  the  house  was  often  one  great  cham- 
ber, lodging  a  number  of  families.  The  frames  of 
such  dwellings  were  made  of  saplings,  planted  in 
double  rows  for  the  sides  of  the  houses,  bent  till 
they  met,  and  lashed  together  at  the  tops.  Other 
poles  were  bound  transversely,  and  the  whole  was 
covered  with  large  sheets  of  bark.  There  were 
neither  windows  nor  chimneys.  Light  and  air  were 
supplied  by  an  opening  in  the  roof.  At  each  end 
was  a  store-room,  where  casks  of  bark,  filled  with 
Indian  corn,  smokdd  fish  and  other  provisions  not 
liable  to  injury  from  the  frost,  were  stored.  Some- 
times provisions  were  buried  in  deep  holes  in  the 
earth,  within  or  without  the  house  >.  Wide  scaf- 
folds, formed  of  posts  and  tr3n?verse  poles  and 
covered  with  thick  sheets  of  bark,  on  which  were 
laid  mats  and   skins,  were  built   along  the   entire 

length  of  both  sides  of  the  house.    In  summer,  the 

36 


i 


Xite  ill  tbc  pali^a^c^ 


37 


inmates  slept  on  tlicse  scaffolds,  and  used  the  space 
beneath  for  storage.  In  winter,  they  slept  around 
the  fires,  which  were  on  the  ground,  in  a  line  down 
the  middle  of  the  dwelling.  The  influence  of  the 
missionaries  had  improved  the  interior  of  the  houses 
in  many  respects,  but  the  people  clung  to  some  of 
their  customs. 

Kishik's  lodge  had  been  built  under  the  direction 
of  the  Frenchmen.  It  was  a  substantial  log  house, 
with  a  sloping  roof.  It  had  a  stone  fireplace  and 
chimney,  and,  rarest  of  luxuries,  a  small  glass  win- 
dow in  the  sitting-room,  and  a  window  in  each  of 
the  three  bed-rooms.  Kishik  had  also  a  kitchen,  with 
a  good  cellar  below.  The  furniture  of  this  lodge, 
though  made  in  the  wilderness,  had  a  resemblance 
to  that  in  the  abodes  of  civilization.  There  were 
chairs  and  tables,  cupboards  and  bedsteads.  Kishik 
and  Nialona  had  some  toilet  articles,  brought  from 
France,  which  were  the  wonder  and  delight  of  the 
Huron  girls  who  were  permitted  to  see  them. 
Sometimes,  as  a  special  treat,  Nialona  let  them  look 
into  her  mirror,  a  very  small  one.  They  amused 
themselves  by  gazing  at  their  reflections  in  lake  or 
river;  but  the  wonderful  mirror  was  not  affected  by 
ripples  on  the  surface  or  cloudy  skies.  They  ad- 
mired Nialona's  brushes,  and  had  ingeniously  man- 
ufactured some  for  themselves  from  bristles,  and 
had  learned  to  brush  their  hair  and  braid  it  neatly. 

Nialona,  with  Washaka  and  Panasawa,  two  or- 


38     TLbc  IRomance  of  a  Result  /Dissiou 


m 


MP 

i? 

Ml. 
Ill 


phan  gir's  who  had  been  under  the  care  of  the  mis- 
sionaries for  some  years,  assisted  the  Fathers  in 
the  instruction  of  the  children.  They  also  taught 
the  Huron  women  to  cook,  to  keep  their  lodges 
in  better  order,  and  to  care  for  the  younger 
orphans. 

The  priests  found  the  children  far  more  tractable 
than  their  elders.  Father  Daniel,  the  martyr  of 
St.  Joseph,  had  translated  the  Pater  Noster  into 
Huron  rhymes,  and  the  children  readily  learned  this 
and  other  prayers,  and  their  musical  voices  were 
sometimes  heard  in  sacred  song.  As  rewards  of 
merit,  a  few  beads  or  two  or  three  prunes  or  raisins 
were  given.  But  about  the  time  of  Dorothy's  ar- 
rival these  treats  became  rare.  The  dangers  of 
Iroquois  attacks  and  the  possibilities  of  siege  were 
increasing,  and  the  stores  must  be  economized. 

The  winter  days,  when  the  stranger  lay  slowly 
convalescing  in  Kishik's  lodge,  were  anxious  ones 
to  the  missionaries.  Straggling  parties  of  hunters 
brought  word  that  signs  of  the  Iroquois  had  been 
seen  in  the  neighborhood.  Yet  the  Hurons  would 
not  be  roused  to  take  active  measures  for  defence. 
It  was  rumored  that  a  thousand  Iroquois,  chiefly 
Senecas  and  Mohawks,  had  taken  the  war-path  for 
the  Hurons  late  in  the  autumn,  and  were  wintering 
in  the  forests.  The  Jesuits  counselled  and  exhorted 
their  Huron  people  to  be  ready  to  meet  the  danger; 
but  their  warnings  were  vain.    The  Indians  lay  idle 


%itc  in  tbe  iPaUsa^es 


39 


in  the  villages,  or  made  htmtingf  parties  for  the 
woods.  The  anxiety  and  the  preparations  for  de- 
fence must  be  borne  by  the  missionaries  and  their 
assistants  alone. 

Besides  the  eighteen  priests,  there  were  at  this 
time,  in  the  various  stations,  four  lay  brothers, 
twenty-three  men  serving  without  pay,  seven  hired 
men,  four  boys,  and  eight  soldiers.  The  white 
traders,  many  of  whom  were  devoted  to  the  mis- 
sion, had  the  right  to  trade  with  the  Indians,  and 
sell  their  furs  at  the  magazine  of  the  Company; 
some  of  them  turned  the  profits  of  their  trade  to 
the  benefit  of  the  mission,  with  the  object  of  mak- 
ing it  partially  self-supporting.  But  these  men,  on 
whom  reliance  could  be  placed,  were  scattered 
throughout  the  missions,  and  would  be  gathered 
in  the  fort  only  in  case  the  other  stations  were  of 
necessity  abandoned. 

The  day  after  Leon  de  Charolais  had  spoken  to 
Dorothy,  he  was  sent  on  foot  with  an  Indian  "  run- 
ner" to  carry  a  message  to  a  distant  mission.  As  he 
was  swift  and  snre-footed,  he  was  often  appointed 
to  such  work,  and  preferred  it  to  teaching  or  assist- 
ing in  the  services  of  the  Church.  Nialona  tried  to 
explain  his  absence  by  signs;  but  her  ;.  •-tent  ap- 
peared so  distressed  that  she  sent  for  a  priest  who 
could  speak  a  few  words  of  English  to  assure  her 
that  the  interpreter  would  return  in  a  few  days. 

The  poor  girl,  unable  to  hold  communication 


;i  ^ 


^«l 


wt^enmm 


msm 


mmm 


mmmmm 


40     Ube  IRontsiicc  ot  a  Scswit  /BMsslon 

with  those  about  her,  lay  in  a  depressed  and  list- 
less state,  and  many  times  Nialona  saw  tears  rolling 
down  her  pale  cheeks.  And  who  could  wonder 
that  she  was  unhappy?  It  was  probable  that  she 
had  been  seized  and  carried  away  from  her  own 
people.  It  might  be  that  they  had  been  murdered 
before  her  eyes.  On  the  return  of  Dc  Charolais, 
her  story  would  be  told. 

Meanwhile,  with  the  idea  of  diverting  her,  some 
of  the  Huron  girls  were  invited  to  the  lodge.  They 
sat  on  the  floor,  weaving  rush  mats  or  baskets,  or 
making  nets  from  twine  which  they  had  spun  from 
hemp  by  rolling  it  on  their  thighs.  The  stranger 
watched  them  foi  a  time  with  some  interest,  and 
then  closed  her  eyes  wearily.  The  next  day  they 
brought  in  new  work,  thinking  variety  would  please 
her,  and  while  one  embroidered  a  robe,  and  another 
worked  moccasins  with  the  dyed  quills  of  the 
hedgehog,  a  third  fashioned  decorations  with  white 
and  purple  wampum  beads. 

Nialona  had  a  piece  of  porcupine  quill  work  on 
hand  for  the  hospital.  The  groundwork  was  formed 
of  finely  cut  strips  of  leather  fastened  together  as 
a  warp;  these  strips  were  bound  two  and  two  by 
colored  quills,  wound  several  times  and  fastened  in- 
geniously. On  this  groundwork  the  Indian  girl 
was  interweaving  a  large  cross.  She  had  become 
skilful  in  fine  embroidery  in  the  French  convent; 
but  her  supply  of  materials  for  such  work  was  very 


Xite  in  tbe  ]P;RUsade0 


41 


small,  so  she  had  learned  the  handiwork  of  her  Hu- 
ron companions. 

The  stranger  smiled  sweetly  when  she  under- 
stood that  her  visitors  were  trying  to  divert  her; 
but  the  smile  came  with  efifort.  She  was  very  weak 
yet,  too  weak  to  be  much  interested  in  anything; 
when  strength  returned  slowly,  keener  remem- 
brance came  with  it  and  anguish  of  heart. 

The  soldiers  and  traders,  the  French  boys  in  the 
fort,  and  the  Huron  boys  in  the  palisades,  sought 
excuses  to  call  at  Kishik's  lodge,  and  some  of  them 
brought  dainties  for  the  invalid;  but  since  the  night 
of  her  arrival  they  had  not  seen  her. 

Young  Bernard  Gautier  had  suffered  much  from 
remorse.  He  believed  that  if  Jules  Venette  and 
he  had  searched  the  drifts  when  they  heard  her 
cry  she  might  have  been  spared  much  suffering. 
He  tried  to  make  amends  by  bringing  her  such 
delicacies  as  he  could  obtain.  He  had  some  nuts 
left  from  his  autumn  store,  and  these  were  placed  at 
Nialona's  disposal  to  make  cakes  for  Mademoiselle 
Dorothee.  Bernard  had  eaten  cakes  in  France  with 
pounded  nuts  in  them.  One  day  he  brought  a  fish 
which  he  had  caught  through  a  hole  in  the  ice.  To 
his  great  delight,  Nialona  invited  him  to  come  in. 
Dorothy  was  propped  up  in  an  easy  chair  which 
had  been  made  for  her  by  Caradeuc  and  Le  Breton. 
Had  Kishik  accepted  all  the  ofYers  of  lounges, 
chairs,  and  other  furniture  of  forest  manufacture 


i 


TOfsm 


mm 


^^ 


42      XTbe  IRomance  ot  a  Jesuit  /B>i69ion 


for  the  comfort  of  the  invalid,  her  lodge  could  not 
have  contained  them. 

The  boy  held  the  fish  toward  Dorothy,  and  she 
understood  he  had  brought  it  for  her.  She  bowed 
and  smiled  pleasantly,  and  his  handsome  face 
flushed  with  delight;  but  when  he  went  out  he  was 
more  uneasy  than  before  lest  she  should  hear  of  his 
shutting  the  gate  against  her.  When  he  announced 
to  Marc  Fourcheux  that  he  had  seen  Mademoiselle 
Dorothee,  Marc  'iquired,  jeeringiy,  "Ah,  did  the 
lady  desire  that  ;  iiould  see  in  good  daylight 
that  her  height  is  noi  .en  feet?  "  And  poor  Ber- 
nard could  make  no  reply. 

In  the  time  that  passed  before  De  Charolais  re- 
turned Dorothy  learned  some  French  and  Huron 
words,  but  could  not  make  her  hearers  under- 
stand her  story.  When  Nialona  told  her  that  the 
young  man  was  at  the  fort,  and  would  soon  come 
to  see  her,  her  eyes  brightened,  her  listlessness  gave 
place  to  animation,  and  Washaka  said:  "Ah,  the 
white  stranger's  heart  was  sore,  her  voice  was  si- 
lent; now  she  will  speak  of  her  own  people;  her 
heart  will  be  glad;  she  will  be  well." 

Yet  it  was  evident  that  she  shrank  from  speaking 
of  her  people.  Dc  Charolais  thought  her  reluctance 
was  explained  when  she  told  him  that  her  father 
and  mother  had  died  within  a  few  days  of  each 
other,  that  she  had  been  left  penniless,  and  had 


Xite  in  tbe  l[>alidade6 


43 


been  sent  from  England  with  strangers  to  find  a 
home  in  the  New  World. 

"  Had  you  no  relatives  to  care  for  you?  '*  asked 
De  Charolais. 

Her  pale  face  flushed,  and  she  hesitated  before 
she  answered,  "  No,  not  one." 

The  story  she  told  was,  that  when  they  had  been 
at  sea  for  weeks,  and  hoped  they  were  nearing  land, 
a  terrible  storm  arose,  almost  wrecked  their  ship, 
and  drove  them  far  out  of  their  course.  After  toss- 
ing about  for  many  days,  they  came  in  sight  of 
land;  but  the  dismantled  ship  was  driven  on  the 
rocks,  and  some  of  the  passengers  and  a  part  of  the 
crew  were  drowned.  The  others  reached  the  shore 
in  one  of  the  ship's  boats,  with  such  provisions  as 
they  could  carry. 

It  was  late  in  the  autumn,  and  very  cold;  but  the 
sailors  said  the  season  had  been  milder  than  usual, 
and  the  ground  was  not  yet  covered  with  snow. 
It  was  an  unknown  coast  to  the  seamen ;  there  was 
no  sign  of  habitation;  but  they  believed  they  were 
not  far  from  the  French  settlements. 

For  a  day  or  two  they  remained  near  the  shore, 
hoping  to  catch  sight  of  some  vessel.  Some  of  their 
men  went  inland,  others  a  few  miles  to  the  south, 
to  see  if  they  could  discover  any  inhabitants;  but 
returned  with  the  news  that  they  had  not  seen  a 
human  being. 

On  the  fourth  day  a  party  of  men  returned  in 


44     Ube  IRomancc  ot  a  Jesuit  /DMsslon 

much  alarm.  They  had  seen  a  large  fleet  of  canoes 
manned  by  Indians  coming  in  the  direction  of  the 
encampment  of  whites. 

They  dared  not  venture  on  the  water,  as  the  men 
reported  that  the  Indians  largely  outnumbered 
their  party.  They  were  reluctant  to  abandon  their 
boat,  in  which  they  had  hoped  they  might  make 
their  v/ay  along  the  coast  to  the  white  settlements; 
their  only  safe  course  appeared  to  be  to  go  inland; 
at  least,  until  the  Indians  were  out  of  sight.  With 
great  difficulty  they  carried  the  large  boat  ashore, 
and  stowed  it  high  on  land  in  a  thicket,  hoping  the 
Indians  woul«!  not  land  and  discover  their  foot- 
prints. 

Then  they  i,  ^dr  their  way  as  rapidly  as  they 
could  through  the  pine  forest,  placing  marks  on  the 
trees  here  and  there  so  they  might  return  by  the 
same  path;  yet  endeavoring  to  cover  their  foot- 
prints and  the  tree  marks  so  they  should  not  be 
too  readily  discerned  by  the  Indians. 

Late  at  night  they  halted  for  rest,  and  were  so 
weary  that  they  slept  until  they  were  roused  by 
their  watchmen,  who  reported  that  the  Indians 
were  following. 

They  set  out  in  the  darkness  of  night,  men  and 
women  and  young  children,  not  knowing  whither 
they  went.  They  were  seeking  escape  from  one 
band  of  enemies,  but  they  might  be  walking  into 
the  embrace  of  another. 


Xite  in  tbe  ipalisa^es 


45 


' 


They  trudged  wearily  that  night  and  the  next 
day,  taking  short  intervals  of  rest  and  hurried 
meals.  It  seemed  evident  that  the  Indians  had 
given  up  their  pursuit,  and  the  fugitives  had  a 
night's  rest  without  disturbance.  But  they 
doubted  the  possibility  of  finding  their  way  again 
to  their  boat  and  the  shore,  and  the  danger  of 
meeting  the  savages  appeared  too  great. 

They  wandered  for  many  days,  sometimes  ford- 
ing streams  on  which  ice  had  begun  to  form.  Their 
provisions  were  running  short,  their  clothing  was 
insufficient  for  the  cold  weather,  and  they  were 
still  wandering  in  an  uninhabited  region.  It  was 
November,  but  winter  had  set  'v,  and  they  feared 
they  should  be  frozen  or  starved  in  the  wilderness. 
One  day  they  came  on  the  ashes  of  camp-fires. 
Their  scouts  reported  that  they  were  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  an  Indian  encampment.  They  were  so 
depressed  by  their  privations  that  they  had  almost 
lost  their  terror  of  encountering  the  savages,  and 
it  was  possible  that  the  Indians  might  be  friendly. 

Several  men  were  sent  out  to  reconnoitre.  They 
were  absent  long.  Then  one  came  back.  His  com- 
panions had  been  killed  in  a  skirmish  with  a  band 
of  red  men. 

They  hastened  away  again,  expecting  almost 
momentarily  to  be  overtaken ;  but  again,  for  some 
reason  that  they  did  not  understand,  the  enemy 
ceased  to  pursue. 


/i 


Ra 


46     ^be  IRomance  of  a  Jesuit  /IDission 

One  day  a  man  who  had  been  sent  in  advance 
returned  to  say  that  he  was  sure  he  had  caught 
sight  of  two  white  men  dressed  in  skins.  He  had 
shouted  to  them,  but  they  had  not  heard;  and  he 
could  not  overtake  them.  Their  hopes  rose;  they 
beheved  they  were  approaching  a  white  settlement. 
But  it  was  late,  and  they  encamped  for  the  night. 
Toward  morning  they  were  roused  by  wild  cries. 
Their  sentries  had  been  attacked.  Then  confusion 
reigned.  The  women  and  children  darted  here  and 
there,  seeking  shelter,  not  knowing  where  to  find 
it,  and  Dorothy  was  separated  from  her  com- 
panions. 

She  wandered  alone  until  she  caught  sight  of  an 
Indian  peering  about,  and  then  she  secreted  her- 
self in  the  forest.  She  was  hiding  in  a  hollow  tree 
when  a  man  passed.  She  could  not  see  his  face 
through  the  snow  and  darkness;  but  was  convinced 
from  his  dress  that  he  was  not  an  Indian,  and  so 
gathered  courage  to  call  to  him.  She  saw  him 
turn  to  pursue  the  savage,  and  though  her  mind 
had  grown  bewildered  from  her  long  wandering 
and  lack  of  food,  she  was  impressed  with  the  belief 
that  there  were  white  people  in  the  direction  in 
which  he  had  been  going.  She  made  her  way  to  the 
border  of  the  forest  and  saw  the  lights  in  the  fort. 
She  had  no  distinct  recollection  of  anything  that 
had  occurred  afterward  until  she  had  awakened  to 
consciousness  in  Kishik's  lodge. 


:> -jumM^^SSiAJk'.t  *t 


i 


I 


%itc  In  tbe  paHsa^ed 


47 


This  part  of  her  story  was  told  with  a  frankness 
that  left  no  doubt  of  its  truth  in  the  mind  of  De 
Charolais.  But  her  hesitation  concerning  her  pre- 
vious life,  her  uneasiness  when  questioned,  con- 
vinced him  that  some  painful  secret  was  connected 
with  her  departure  from  England.  Had  she  been 
a  Catholic  she  might  have  been  induced  to  reveal 
it  in  the  confessional;  but  she  had  been  brought  up 
in  a  faith  that  held  it  in  distrust ;  and  it  was  evident 
from  remarks  that  escaped  her,  that  though  her 
prejudices  had  been  modified  by  the  kindness  of 
the  missionaries,  she  looked  on  the  confessional 
as  a  device  of  the  Evil  One. 

No  sign  of  her  party  had  been  seen  by  the 
Frenchmen.  The  violenc  storm  had  covered  all 
tracks;  whether  they  had  been  captured  by  the 
Indians,  or  had  escaped,  and  gone  southward,  no 
one  could  tell. 


.ii 


hi 


7 


VI 

tlbe  /iMssfonartca  an^  Ubetr  jf locft 

The  priests  had  been  schooled  to  bear  the  op- 
position and  unruly  conduct  of  the  Indians  with 
patience.  A  paper  printed  by  the  Jesuits  of  Paris 
gave  them  these  instructions  regarding  their  con- 
duct to^ard  those  whom  they  sought  to  convert: 
"  You  should  love  the  Indians  as  brothers  with 
whom  you  are  to  spend  the  rest  of  your  life. — Never 
make  them  wait  for  you  in  embarking. — Take  a  flint 
and  steel  to  light  their  pipes  and  kindle  their  fire  at 
night;  for  these  little  services  win  their  hearts. — 
Try  to  eat  their  sagamite  as  they  cook  it,  bad  and 
dirty  as  it  is.  .  .  .  Do  not  make  yourself 
troublesome,  even  to  a  single  Indian. — Do  not  ask 
them  too  many  questions. — Bear  their  faults  in 
silence,  and  appear  always  cheerful.  ...  Be 
not  ceremonious  with  the  Indians;  take  at  once 
what  they  offer  you:  ceremony  offends  them. 
.  .  .  Remember  that  it  is  Christ  and  His  Cross 
that  you  are  seeking,  and  if  you  aim  at  anything 
else  you  will  get  but  affliction  for  body  and  mind." 

In  the  instruction  of  their  people  the  priests 
found  pictures  of  Heaven.  Hell,  and  the  Last  Judg- 

4S 


I  1^ 


/iMasionaried  mt>  tbeir  jf  locft 


49 


ment  very  effective.  Some  intractables  circulated 
a  report  that  a  young  girl  had  returned  to  life,  and 
had  given  a  deplorable  account  of  the  Heaven  of 
the  French.  She  said  that  the  Jesuits  had  tried  to 
convert  the  Indians  to  their  faith  in  order  that  after 
death  they  might  have  the  satisfaction  of  torturing 
them  in  Heaven. 

The  pagan  could  net  readily  understand  the  love 
and  forgiveness  taught  by  the  Christian.  "  Why 
did  you  baptize  that  Iroquois?  "  asked  some  con- 
verts of  their  priest,  who  had  baptized  a  captive 
who  had  been  afterward  tortured  to  death.  "  He 
will  get  to  Heaven  before  us,"  said  the  captors, 
"  and  will  try  to  turn  us  out." 

When  the  villages  of  Wenrio  and  Ihonatiria  were 
visited  by  pestilence,  Gamier  and  Jogues,  the  mis- 
sionaries there,  were  accused  of  being  the  cause  of 
it;  their  litanies  were  said  to  be  charms  and  incan- 
tations; and  baptism  was  dreaded  as  a  precursor 
of  death.  Nevertheless,  if  the  missionaries  heard 
the  wail  of  a  sick  child  they  entered  the  wigwam, 
in  spite  of  threats,  and  while  making  inquiries 
about  the  infant  frequently  contrived  to  baptize  it; 
sometimes  bringing  in  a  little  water  for  that  pur- 
pose on  a  corner  of  a  handkerchief.  They  deceived 
the  parents,  but  they  believed  that  their  action  'vis 
justified,  because  they  saved  the  child  froin  ll^e 
"  Infernal  Wolf,"  and  enabled  it  to  pass  from  the 
wigwam  of  the  savage  to  the  abode  of  the  blest. 


50     XCbc  iRomancc  of  a  Jesuit  /Mission 

They  gladly  braved  death  and  endured  pain  and 
privation,  and  at  last  won  to  their  side  many  among 
whom  they  labored. 

Their  daily  life  was  systematic.  The  priests  rose 
at  four  from  the  sheets  of  bark  on  which  they  slept, 
and  employed  the  time  till  eight  o'clock  with 
masses,  private  devotions,  reading  religious  books, 
and  breakfasting.  At  eight  they  opened  the  door 
and  admitted  the  Hurons.  Those  who  appeared 
intractable  were  courteously  requested  to  depart; 
the  more  docile  were  catechized.  At  intervals  the 
guests  smoked  their  pipes  while  they  squatted  on 
the  floor. 

To  make  provision  for  the  large  number  of  peo- 
ple who  depended  on  them,  the  priests  at  Sainte 
Marie  cultivated  a  tract  of  ground  near  the  fort, 
where  they  raised  quantities  of  Indian  corn,  pump- 
kins, beans,  and  other  vegetables.  Within  the  walls 
they  had  cattle,  swine,  and  poultry.  Their  usual 
food  was  sagamite,  but  this  simple  fare  was  a  treat 
to  some  of  the  improvident  Indians. 

They  were  anxious  about  the  spiritual  condition 
of  the  young  heretic  who  had  been  so  strangely 
and,  as  they  believed,  providentially  cast  upon 
their  care.  But  for  the  present  they  were  obliged 
to  leave  her  to  the  ministrations  of  De  Charolais; 
his  skill  as  an  interpreter  was  not  to  be  denied,  but 
he  had  never  given  any  evidence  of  zeal  for  the 
conversion  of  the  Indians,  and  the  Fathers  were 


Ml 


nDtddtonaries  anO  tbcfr  jf locft 


51 


III 


doubtful  of  his  efforts  to  win  tlic  white  sister  to 
the  Faitli.  But  she  was  learning  French  and  Hu- 
ron, and  they  must  be  patient. 

One  mild  Sunday  morning  they  thought  she  was 
strong  enough  to  attend  mass  in  the  chapel  of  the 
fort.  Though  she  could  not  understand  the  words, 
she  might  be  impressed  by  the  service.  The  French 
and  Huron  boys  disputed  for  the  privilege  of  con- 
veying her  to  the  chapel  on  a  toboggan.  The  mat- 
ter was  finally  settled  by  lot,  and  Bernard  Gautier 
and  Mitasog  had  the  honor  by  turns. 

The  church  was  full  to  the  doors,  for,  in  addition 
to  the  Hurons  who  lived  in  the  palisades,  visitors 
from  other  villages  came  to  the  fort  on  alternate 
Sundays  and  were  entertained  ur  il  Monday. 

Dorothy's  first  public  appearance  caused  the 
good  Fathers  serious  anxiety.  They  had  expected 
that  the  visiting  Indians,  who  had  never  seen  a 
white  girl,  would  show  much  curiosity;  but  they 
were  not  prepared  for  the  great  interest  of  the 
young  traders,  some  of  whom  had  not  been  at  the 
fort  on  the  night  of  her  arrival,  and  had  come  to 
the  service  from  neighboring  missions  because  the 
news  had  spread  that  she  would  attend  mass.  One 
dark,  bold-looking  youth,  Raoul  Hauteroche, 
stared  at  her  so  persistently  that  she  blushed  deeply 
and  tried  to  avoid  his  eyes.  De  Charolais  observed 
her  embarrassment,  and  shot  an  indignant  glance 
at  Hauteroche,  which  the  trader  met  with  an  in- 


(' 


:   ^  ( 


'•'**r^'-:.':^'4.'j'g-r-?'«^.<Yrag: 


% 


wmmmm 


mm 


52      iCbe  TRomance  of  a  Scsuit  A&isslon 


^ 


1: 


Solent  expression.  Leon  was  not  assisting  in  the 
service,  but  sat  in  the  body  of  the  church,  to  help 
to  keep  order  among-  the  more  intractable  Indians; 
but  all  thought  of  this  duty  passed  from  his  mind 
as  soon  as  he  became  a\vare  of  the  undesirable  at- 
tention that  Hauteroche  and  the  other  young  men 
were  bestowing  on  Dorothy.  He  had  seen  her 
almost  daily,  had  been  the  bearer  of  messages  of 
sympathy  and  kindness  from  the  Fathers,  and  had 
on  his  own  part  done  what  he  coula  to  cheer  her. 
He  had  come  to  look  on  the  time  he  passed  with 
her  as  the  supreme  hour  of  the  day.  He  knew  that 
she  trusted  hmi,  depended  on  him,  that  her  face 
brightened  at  his  approach,  and  dropped  when  he 
left  her;  that  she  never  failed  to  beg  him  to  come 
again  soon,  and  often  asked  why  he  could  not  spend 
more  time  with  her.  He  believed  she  was  under  his 
special  protection,  and  almost  resented  any  inter- 
ference with  his  plans  for  her,  even  from  the  Su- 
perior, though  he  l-ad  never  given  expression  to 
this  feeling.  He  remembered  uneasily  that  Haute- 
roche could  speak  English,  and  the  thought  sent 
the  blood  to  his  face. 

While  he  sat.  full  of  jealous  forebodings,  heedless 
of  the  service,  and  unmindful  of  the  scuffling  of 
some  Indian  boys,  he  observed  that  Dorothy's 
face  had  grown  very  white  and  that  she  was  sway- 
ing in  her  seat.    Hauteroche,  too,  had  observed  it 


/iMsslonaries  mt>  tbeir  jflocft         53 


and  had  risen,  but  De  Charolais  was  at  her  side 
before  him. 

"  Are  you  ill?  "  he  said,  bending  low. 
"Yes,  yes;    please  take  me  away,"  she  said, 
faintly. 

He  stooped,  raised  her  in  his  arms,  and  carried 
her  from  the  church,  while  she  clung  to  him  as  if 
fearing  she  would  fall. 

The  atmosphere  of  the  chapel  had  been  close, 
and  she  revived  when  she  was  in  the  open  air. 
Nialona  had  followed,  and  De  Charolais  saw  that 
directly  behind  her  were  Hauteroche,  Le  Breton, 
and  Victor  Caradeuc. 

Hauteroche  drew  out  the  toboggan,  and  there 
was  a  sneer  on  his  face  when  he  suggested  that  De 
Charolais  return  to  his  duties  in  the  chapel,  and 
permit  him  to  convey  Mademoiselle  Dorothee 
home. 

"  No,  no,"  whispered  Dorothy,  "  not  that  man. 
Do  not  leave  me." 

The  trusting  face,  the  clinging  arms,  were  dear 
to  Leon.  He  did  not  want  to  relinquish  his  pre- 
cious burden.  He  whispered  to  her  tenderly,  as  to 
a  timid  child,  "  Do  not  fear.  I  will  be  with  you. 
I  will  take  you  home." 

Then  he  stooped  and  placed  her  on  the  tobog- 
gan, and  tucked  the  robes  carefully  about  her. 

"My  thanks,  Monsieur  Hauteroche,"  he  said. 


I 


t  4 


54     Ube  IRomance  of  a  Jesuit  Aiasion 


"  but  I  require  no  assistance,  and  will  not  detain 
you  longer  from  the  service." 

Defiant  glances  were  exchanged  by  the  two 
young  men;  but  Hauteroche  made  no  open  resist- 
ance, and  returned  to  the  chapel. 

The  relations  between  the  trader  and  De  Charo- 
lals  had  never  been  friendly.  Hauteror'-e  was  a 
vain  fellow  and  a  braggart,  and  the  other  mei 
thought  he  was  jealous  of  Leon's  popularity.  Mai 
of  the  traders  were  devoted  to  the  mission;  but  it 
was  evident  that  Hauteroche  had  not  come  there 
with  disinterested  motives,  and  that  his  sole  object 
was  to  enrich  himself.  He  sought  every  opportu- 
nity to  ingratiate  himself  with  the  Fathers,  but 
they  distrusted  him. 

After  they  left  the  chapel,  he  accompanied  them 
to  the  residence  to  dine,  and  took  occasion  to  warn 
Father  Ragueneau  privately  that  unless  there  was 
a  speedy  end  to  the  relations  between  De  Charolais 
and  the  fair  stranger,  Leon  would  soon  discover 
that  he  had  no  vocation  for  the  priesthood. 

He  was  gratified  by  observing  the  concern  in  the 
Superior's  face,  and  the  insolence  of  his  glance  at 
De  Charolais  was  mingled  with  an  expression  of 
triumph  that  perplexed  Leon. 


>l  i 


VII 

%ion  IRecelpes  laotlce  of  35anl6bmcnt 

In  the  afternoon  Leon  was  summoned  to  the 
Superior's  room,  a  bare  and  cheerless  place,  and 
something-  in  its  aspect,  or  the  Superior's  manner, 
made  the  young  man's  heart  sink. 

Ragueneau  had  not  taken  counsel  with  any  one 
regarding  the  insinuations  of  Hauteroche.  He  had 
given  them  careful  consideration,  and  had  decided 
that  he  would  not  refer  to  Dorothy  in  his  interview 
with  Leon. 

As  soon  as  the  young  man  entered,  the  Superior 
began,  abruptly:  **  Leon,  Father  Gamier  is  at  this 
time  almost  alone  at  St.  Matthias,  in  the  Tobacco 
Nation.  He  needs  an  assistant,  and  the  choice  has 
fallen  upon  you.  Prepare  to  leave  this  mission 
to-morrow,  at  dawn.  Some  Huron  men  will  ac- 
company you.  You  will  carry  a  sealed  letter  of 
instruction  for  Father  Gamier." 

Ragueneau  observed  that  the  young  man  started 
back  as  if  he  had  received  a  sudden  blow.  He 
could  not  disguise  the  trouble  in  his  voice  when  he 
asked:  "  Father,  do  you  mean  that  I  take  your  in- 
structions to  the  mission,  and  return  here?  " 

55 


■  i 


mmmm-j^t^nrnm^ 


'h 


$6      zhc  IRomance  ot  a  Jesuit  /BMssion 


<( 


I  do  not,"  said  the  Superior,  sternly.  He  was 
a  disciplinarian,  earnest  and  sincere;  but  he  had 
not  much  tenderness  in  dealing  with  human  weak- 
ness. "  You  will  remain  at  St.  Matthias  to  assist 
Father  Garnier.  I  have  no  reason  at  this  time  to 
believe  that  we  shall  have  occasion  to  recall  you." 

"  I  will  be  ready.  Father,"  said  Leon.  His  voice 
sounded  flat  and  lifeless. 

"That  is  all,"  said  Ragueneau;  and  Leon  left 
him. 

He  was  at  a  loss  to  understand  the  unexpected 
action  of  the  Superior,  his  curt  manner,  and  few 
words.  He  did  not  connect  his  dismissal  with 
Dorothy,  until,  about  an  hour  later,  when  he  was 
on  his  way  from  the  fort  to  the  palisades,  he  met 
Hauteroche  by  the  gate.  Hauteroche  had  heard 
the  news  from  Caradeuc,  and  was  awa'ting  an  op- 
portunity to  taunt  De  Charolais. 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  mockingly,  "  you  go  to  inform 
Mademoiselle  Dorothee  of  your  approaching  de- 
parture. Would  I  mig^ht  witness  the  parting.  She 
will  be  pensive,  therefore  more  beautiful.  But  be 
comforted,  my  friend,  she  will  not  remain  long  in 
affliction.  I  have  observed  her.  She  is  April's 
child:  now  smiling,  now  sad.  She  will  readily 
forget." 

Leon  muttered  something  between  his  teeth, 
which  Hauteroche  could  not  hear.  But  he  followed 
De  Charolais,  and  continued,  "  The  good  Superior 


Xeon'0  IRoticc  ot  JSanisbmcnt        57 


i  ^ 


is  wise.  Ah,  he  was  once  young;  perhaps  even 
now,  who  knows,  he  hides  tender  memories  L'=5neath 
a  stern  visage.  He  has  become  aware  that  he  must 
take  speedy  action,  else  might  the  Church  lose  a 
priest  whose  favor  with  the  fair  sex  may  hereafter 
win  even  heretics  to  the  faith.  Perhaps  it  is  even 
now  too  late.  It  may  be  that  one  whose  spiritual 
state  has  caused  the  good  Father  sore  anxiety  has 
discovered  his  unfitness  for  the  sacred  vocation. 
The  time  has  been  so  short,  yet  all  have  observed 
the  understanding,  the  more  than  friendly  relations, 
between  him  and  the  fair  stranger." 

The  next  moment  Hauteroche  was  sprawling  on 
the  snow,  and  Leon  said,  as  he  strode  past  him. 
"  When  you  carr}'  this  tale  to  the  Superior  pray 
mention  it  as  another  evidence  of  my  fitness  for  the 
sacred  office." 

He  understood  now.  Hauteroche,  or  some  one 
at  Hauteroche's  instigation,  had  advised  Father 
Ragueneau  to  prohibit  his  visits  to  Dorothy.  Yet 
he  had  made  them  in  the  first  place  under  the  in- 
structions and  with  the  approval  of  the  Superior. 
True,  the  visits  had  become  more  and  more  fre- 
quent. He  had  called  several  times  in  one  day,  and 
had  perhaps  neglected  duties  in  consequence.  But 
he  had  done  it  openly,  and  had  never  been  reproved. 
Had  any  one  dared  to  utter  slanderous  words,  to 
speak  lightly,  falsely,  of  her?  He  recalled  Father 
Ragueneau's  hardness,   his  apparent   displeasure, 


mmBBsmmsK 


fi»Ti.ioirini*^< 


58      xrbe  IRomance  ot  a  Jesuit  /iDission 

and  his  face  burned  with  indignation.  Of  himself 
they  might  think  and  speak  as  they  pleased;  but  no 
one,  not  even  the  Superior,  should  dare  to  utter  a 
word  against  her,  pure  and  innocent,  untouched 
by  evil,  as  she  was.  Not  a  word  had  passed  between 
them  that  he  would  hesitate  to  tell  his  confessor. 
The  Fathers  had  given  him  a  position  of  trust,  and 
he  had  neither  by  word  nor  deed  betrayed  it  inten- 
tionally. He  had  been  injudicious  in  meeting  her 
so  often,  but  he  had  meant  no  wrong.  He  recalled 
now  the  tremor  in  her  voice,  the  light  in  her  eye,  at 
his  approach,  to  which  his  voice  and  eye  had  an- 
swered. But,  until  the  moment  when  the  Superior 
had  given  the  word  that  would  part  them,  he  had 
not  realized  his  feeling  for  her.  He  had  sympa- 
thized with  her  desolate  position,  had  longed  to 
cheer  and  comfort  her;  but  he  had  been  so  schooled 
to  the  belief  that  he  must  never  permit  a  thought 
of  love  to  enter  his  heart  that  it  had  come  upon 
him  unawares.  He  realized  it  now,  yet  he  had  no 
thought  of  opposition  to  his  Superior's  command. 
He  had  been  ordered  to  go  far  from  her,  and  he 
must  obey,  and  part  from  her,  if  need  be,  at  once 
and  forever.  But  he  felt  that  in  leaving  her  he 
would  leave  all  the  sweetness  that  life  held.  The 
hearts  of  the  other  men  were  in  their  work.  The 
Fathers  were  content,  more  than  content,  to  work 
for  God  and  the  souls  of  their  people;  the  traders 
were  devoted  to  the  mission,  or  to  the  pursuit  of 


V,n^lllllillilin 


aeon's  flotfce  of  JSanlsbmcnt        59 


gain.  But  since  the  time  when  he  had  given  up 
the  hopes  of  his  life,  in  compliance  with  his  dying 
mother's  plea,  he  had  lived  but  for  the  day,  without 
any  but  a  passing  interest,  with  no  defined  hope  or 
object.  He  had  done  the  work  appointed  for  him; 
but  his  heart  had  not  been  in  it. 

While  he  was  making  his  preparations  for  de- 
parture he  almost  determined  to  go  away  without 
seeing  her.  He  feared  that  in  parting  from  her  he 
might  betray  too  much  feeling.  But  he  longed  to 
see  her  face  once  more,  and  were  he  to  leave  her 
without  a  word  his  conduct  would  appear  to  her 
cruel  and  unwarrantable. 

When  he  knocked  at  Kishik's  door  it  was  Dor- 
othy's voice  that  bade  him  come  in.  When  he 
entered  he  found  her  alone. 

"  Where  is  Mademoiselle  Nialona?  "  The  ques- 
tion served  to  cover  some  embarrassment, 

"  She  has  gone  to  see  a  little  child  who  is  very 
ill.    Grandmother  Kishik  is  with  her." 

"  I — have  come  to  ask,  are  you  better?  Have 
you  recovered  from  your  illness  of  this  morning?  " 

"  Thank  you;  I  am  not  ill.  It  was  only  that  I 
have  not  yet  strength  to  sit  up  so  long,  and  the 
crowd  was  great." 

When  she  had  finished  speaking,  he  stood  near 
her,  looking  down  into  her  face  without  a  word. 
What  is  it?  "  she  asked,  and  her  voice  was 


tt 


■I 


1a 


6o      zbc  IRomance  ot  a  Scsuit  /Mission 


troubled.  "  Has  anything  happened?  Why  are 
you  so  pale?  " 

*'  I  am  going  away  to-morrow."  His  voice  was 
so  low  that  she  heard  with  difficulty. 

"  To-morrow!  But  only  for  a  little  while.  You 
will  come  back?  " 

"  No,  I  am  going  far  away.  It  may  be  I  shall 
never  come  back." 

"But  why?" 

"  I  have  no  choice.  The  Superior  commands, 
and  we  must  obey.  An  hour  ago  he  told  me  I  must 
leave  at  to-morrow's  dawn,  to  go  to  St.  Matthias, 
the  farthest  mission;  it  is  in  the  land  of  the  To- 
bacco Nation.  He  gave  me  no  hope  that  he  would 
recall  me." 

She  dropped  her  head  in  her  hands,  and  both 
were  silent.  When  she  looked  up  her  face  was  wet 
with  tears.  '■  O,  it  is  cruel,"  she  wailed.  "  It  will 
be  so  desolate,  so  dreary,  without  you.  I — cannot 
bear  it." 

She  had  no  thought  of  disguising  her  distress. 
Her  frank  delight  in  his  presence  had  been  one  of 
her  great  charms  for  him. 

He  tried  to  comfort  her.  "  It  may  be  the  Supe- 
rior will  grant  me  permission  to  return.  I  cannot 
tell.  But — now  you  speak  some  French,  some 
Huron  words,  others  will  understand;  you  will  be 
less  lonely.  Nialona,  Washaka,  are  kind.  If — you 
should  be  in  sorrow,  if  you  need  counsel,  help,  ask 


%ton*s  "Wotfcc  of  JSanisbmcnt 


6i 


permission  to  write  to  Father  Brebeuf  at  St.  Ig- 
nace.  He  knows  your  language  well.  He  will  come 
to  you." 

She  shook  her  head  sadly.  "  Ah,  no;  but — you 
are  different.  They — the  priests  are  stern.  They 
seek  but  to  bring  me  to  their  faith.  You  are  gen- 
tle; you  are  so  good,  so  kind." 

At  another  time  he  might  have  said  that  all  the 
Fathers  were  kind;  but  it  seemed  to  him  then  that 
the  Superior  was  very  hard.  He  answered:  "At 
heart  many  are  kind,  the  stern  appearance  some- 
times hides  the  tender  heart ;  but  you  will  know 
that  Father  Brebeuf  is  truly  kind  and  gentle— kind 
and  gentle  as  he  is  wise  and  strong." 

She  found  little  consolation  in  his  words,  but  she 
said  only,  "  I  have  not  seen  him." 

"  You  do  not  remember.  On  the  night  when  you 
came  to  us  he  raised  you  from  the  floor,  so  they 
tell  me,  and  carried  you  to  the  couch.  He  went 
back  to  St.  Ignace  in  the  morning  when  you  were 
yet  unconscious.  It  is  but  a  few  miles  distant,  and 
he  has  visited  Sainte  Marie  since  that  night ;  but 
he  has  been  always  busy,  so  he  has  returned  without 
seeing  you." 

There  was  silence  between  them.  He  fixed  his 
eyes  on  her  so  intently  that  she  cast  down  her  own. 
Then  he  gave  a  quivering  sigh,  and  turned  his  head 
away. 

"  O,  why  must  you  go? "  she  said,  brokenly. 


wmm»mm 


wmm 


^gM 


62      ube  IRomance  ot  a  Jesuit  /iMssion 

"  Surely — it  is  a  mistake.  You — do  good  here. 
The  boys  love  you.  And — it  breaks  your  heart  to 
be  banished.  This — has  been  your  home;  your 
friends  are  here.  Will  they  not  plead  with  him, 
the  Superior,  to  permit  you  to  remain?  It  may  be 
that  his  heart  would  soften." 

"  It  would  be  useless,  worse  than  useless.  Were 
I  to  say  a  word,  to  oppose  his  decision,  it  would 
take  from  me  all  hope  of  recall.  And — I  cannot 
say  in  truth  that  he  is  not  right,  however  hard  it  is 
for  me  to  believe  it  and  obey." 

Something  in  his  tone  made  her  look  at  him  in 
surprise.  "  Right!  Do  you  mean  there  could  be 
wrong  in  your  staying  here?  " 

He  hesitated,  and  Nialona  and  Kishik  came  in. 
He  told  them  that  he  must  go  away,  and  Nialona 
expressed  regret;  but  it  was  evident  that  it  did  not 
touch  her  deeply.  He  stayed  for  a  few  moments 
and  tried  to  conduct  himself  without  betraying 
emotion.  But  when  he  took  Dorothy's  hand  at 
parting,  Nialona  observed  that  he  held  it  long,  that 
his  voice  trembled  when  he  said  his  farewell  words, 
and  that  the  pain  that  looked  from  his  eyes  was 
keen.  She  recalled  insinuations  of  Hauteroche, 
remarks  of  Victor  Caradeuc,  on  the  young  man's 
frequent  visits.  She  had  replied  to  them  that  it 
was  proper  that  one  who  would  be  a  priest  should 
spend  time  in  trying  to  win  a  heretic  to  the 
faith.    As  the  conversations  had  been  in  English 


l£on'0  notice  of  Xanisbment 


63 


she  was  not  aware  that  De  Charolais  had  made 
few  efforts  in  that  direction.  She  had  said  that  his 
interest  and  kindness  were  natural,  for  the  girl  was 
a  stranger  and  cut  off  from  communication  with 
others  who  could  not  speak  her  language.  But 
she  began  to  understand  that  his  interest  was  more 
than  friendly,  and  it  shocked  her  convent-trained 
mind  that  a  man  who  was  destined  for  the  priest- 
hood should  have  permitted  his  affections  to  wan- 
der, or  be  disloyal  for  a  moment,  even  in  thought, 
to  his  holy  office.  Her  training  had  apparently 
eliminated  the  savage  from  her  nature.  She  had 
been  much  commended  for  her  diligence  and  obe- 
dience, and  thoroughly  believed  in  her  own  recti- 
tude. She  was  severe  in  criticism  of  actions  that 
did  not  accord  with  her  standard,  and  she  began  to 
condemn  De  Charolais  without  reserve.  When  he 
turned  to  speak  to  her  she  looked  coldly  into  his 
pale  face,  and  with  a  hard  ring  in  her  voice  informed 
him  that  Father  Ragueneau  had  doubtless  excellent 
reasons  for  transferring  him  to  St.  Matthias. 

His  face  flushed,  and  he  replied  with  evident  an- 
noyance that  he  had  not  presumed  to  doubt  the 
Superior's  discretion,  and  was  aware  that  he  never 
did  anything  without  good  reason. 

He  turned  once  more  to  look  at  Dorothy,  who 
was  dismayed  by  Nialona's  attitude,  and  then  hur- 
ried from  the  lodge. 


1 .1.1 


MM 


nan 


VIII 

Xast  TOotDs  wftb  JSrdbeut 

Leon  had  been  excused  from  duty.  The  Superior 
believed  that  he  was  in  his  narrow  room  preparing 
for  departure.  He  had  counselled  him  to  spend 
the  evening  in  prayer  and  meditation. 

When  Father  Brebeuf  arrived  from  St.  Ignace 
to  confer  with  Ragueneau  on  a  difficulty  that  had 
arisen,  the  Superior  informed  him  of  Leon's  ap- 
proaching removal  and  the  reasons  therefor.  To 
Brebeuf  alone  would  he  confide  them. 

Brebeuf  was  much  moved.  In  spite  of  the  dif- 
ference in  age — he  was  fifty-six  years  old — there 
was  a  strong  bond  of  fellowship  between  him  and 
the  young  man.  He  thought  he  understood  Dc 
Charolais  well.  He  saw  in  him  the  possibilities  for 
good  and  for  evil,  and  had  often  chosen  him,  with 
Ragueneau's  permission,  as  his  companion  in  work 
and  in  his  rare  times  of  recreation.  Leon,  on  his 
part,  was  much  attached  to  Brebeuf,  and  admired 
his  manly  vigor.  His  age  had  an  evidence  in  the 
gray  that  sprinkled  his  short  mustache  and  beard  ■ 
but  his  tall,  finely  proportioned  frame,  erect  s  °* 
vigorous,  showed  no  sign  of  diminishing  po\\     . 

64 


Xast  MorOs  witb  Xr^beuf 


65 


But  when  Ragueneau  told  him  many  things  that 
had  been  repeated  to  him  regarding  Leon's  devo- 
tion to  the  stranger,  Brebeuf  recalled  the  young 
man's  reticence  in  speaking  of  the  girl,  and  said, 
with  a  sigh,  that  the  Superior  did  well  in  removing 
him  from  temptation. 

Hv'  wished  to  see  De  Charolais,  but  the  messen- 
ger w.io  was  sent  to  call  him  returned  with  the 
news  that  his  room  was  empty,  and  no  one  in  the 
fort  had  seen  him  within  an  hour. 

"  It  may  be  he  has  walked  to  St.  Ignace,"  said 
Brebeuf.  "  He  would  not  willingly  go  so  far  with- 
out a  word  of  parting  to  me." 

"  He  did  not  ask  permission,"  said  Ragueneau. 
Leon's  manner  had  been  sullen  and  distant  since 
he  had  heard  the  decree  of  banishment,  and  it  had 
not  propitiated  the  Superior. 

"  Poor  lad,"  said  Brebeuf.  "  He  is  thoughtless, 
but  he  means  no  disrespect.  He  knew  you  would 
not  refuse  his  request  to  visit  me,  and  in  his  distress 
at  the  parting  he  neglected  to  make  it.  If  he  is 
at  St.  Ignace,  I  will  not  detain  him  long." 

But  Leon  was  not  at  St.  Ignace,  When  Brebeuf 
had  left  the  fort  a  short  distance  behind  him  he 
discovered  a  tall  figure  pacing  back  and  forth  be- 
neath the  palisade  wall,  and  he  knew  that  it  was 
Leon. 

The  last  time  they  had  walked  together  the 
young  man's  laugh  had  rung  out  gaily  on  the  win- 


msBommmimm 


™"-'  >  i'«w'|i'«i''*''w»'T^'»!'ji;!i»i|iii^f|i^f  jjHif I  iiiiiiiiWMWWWB^w^wriiwi>i 


60      ube  IRomance  ot  a  Jesuit  /iDissfou 


try  air.  His  dark  eyes  had  glowed,  exercise  had 
brought  a  ruddy  hue  to  his  brown  skin.  Now,  in 
the  clear  moonlight,  Brebeuf  saw  that  his  face  was 
pallid,  his  eye  dull. 

"  Leon,  my  son,"  he  said,  with  gentle  reproach, 
"  had  you  forgotten  me?  Would  you  have  gone 
away  without  a  word  to  me?  " 

"  Forgive  me,  Father;  I  hive  thought  of  you; 
I  have  longed  to  see  you;  but  the  time  has  been 
short;  I  was  unprepared;  I — have  not  known  what 
to  do." 

In  his  distress  and  confusion  of  mind,  Brebeuf 
read  the  truth  of  Ragueneau's  fears,  and  Leon  saw 
that  the  priest  seemed  to  have  been  stricken  with 
age.  His  face  was  pale  and  deeply  lined;  he  was 
not  erect,  as  he  had  been  when  he  passed  that  way 
at  an  earlier  hour. 

"  Come  with  me  a  little  way,"  he  said;  and  Leon 
walked  beside  him  on  the  crisp  snow. 

"  Leon,"  said  the  elder  man,  "  I  knew  your  father, 
and  loved  him;  and  when  you  came  to  us  I  loved 
you  for  his  sake,  and  afterward  for  your  own.  I 
held  you  in  my  arms  in  your  infancy,  and  your 
mother  told  me  then  that  she  had  dedicated  you 
to  the  service  of  the  Church.  I  trusted  that  you 
would  incline  to  it;  I  am  aware  of  the  trials  the  life 
imposes  on  one  who  has  no  spiritual  devotion,  and 
I  would  never  counsel  any  youth  to  enter  it  if  he 
could  not  do  it  with  a  willing  and  devoted  heart. 


4; 


muBF 


Xast  OTor^s  wltb  JSr^beut; 


67 


You  have  told  me,  in  bitterness  of  spirit,  what  your 
promise  to  your  dying  mother  has  cost  you.  But 
I  have  hoped  that,  in  answer  to  many  prayers,  you 
would  come  to  be  more  than  reconciled.  I  know 
well  how  difficult  your  position  is.  Though  a  man's 
spiritual  life  be  deep,  though  his  heart  be  devoted 
to  his  work,  he  must  strive  and  pray  for  strength 
to  curb  and  guide  his  nature.  I  hoped  that  here, 
in  the  wilderness,  you  would  escape  some  tempta- 
tions; but — it  has  not  been  so." 

He  stopped  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  young  man's 
arm.  "  Trust  me,  Leon;  tell  me  your  trouble.  It 
will  be  sacred  with  me  as  if  spoken  in  the  con- 
fessional." 

There  were  tears  in  the  young  man's  eyes.  He 
did  not  answer;  but  he  was  touched  by  Brebeuf's 
sympathy. 

"  Leon,  do  you  love  the  girl?  " 

"I  do.    God  help  us  both." 

"  My  son,  surely  you  have  not  spoken  of  love  to 
her?  "    Brebeuf's  appeal  was  anxious. 

"  No,  Father,  not  by  any  word.  I — did  not  un- 
derstand— until  I  knew  that  I  must  leave  her.  I 
have  done  wrong,  but  unwittingly,  and — she  suf- 
fers. It  is  in  her  face.  Father,  is  it  too  late?  I 
am  not  ordained.  I  have  taken  no  irrevocable  vow, 
unless  that  one  to  my  mother  be  such.  O,  surely, 
were  she  living  now,  could  she  know  the  truth,  she 


1  U 


'i 


■J 


■PHHl 


68     zbc  IRomance  ot  a  Result  /HMssion 

would  absolve  me  from  that,  and  bid  me,  bid  us 
both,  be  happy!  " 

Brebeuf  did  not  answer. 

"  Father,  could  she  hear  my  voice  to-night  would 
she  not  set  me  free?  " 

"  My  son,  I  cannot  tell.  Yet  I  believe  that  were 
she  with  us  now,  she  would  say,  *  Be  firm,  be  strong, 
and  dare  not  to  draw  back.'  That  was  your  moth- 
er's nature.  She  was  strong  and  enduring;  she 
expected  strength  and  endurance  from  others.  She 
believed  the  priesthood  was  your  destiny,  and  she 
exacted  from  you  the  promise." 

"  But  was  it  right?" 

Brebeuf  sighed.  "  My  son,  the  promise  was 
given.  !•■  is  for  me  to  try  to  strengthen  you,  by 
the  grace  of  God  to  keep  it.  You  know  the  Script- 
ure, *  If  thy  right  hand  offend  thee,  cut  it  off,  and 
cast  it  from  thee.'  It  is  hard.  I  know  it.  But  as 
the  surgeon  amputates  the  limb  to  save  the  life, 
so  by  cutting  away  the  evil  may  the  spiritual  life 
be  preserved.  When  you  are  at  St.  Matthias,  fill 
your  days  with  work,  your  mind  with  holy  medita- 
tion and  prayer,  and  resolve  to  put  all  thought  of 
the  young  girl  from  your  heart.  Never,  in  any  way, 
hold  communication  with  her.  Will  you  give  me 
your  word,  my  son?  These  are  perilous  times;  we 
know  not  when  we  part  if  we  may  meet  again  in 
this  world.  As  it  were  a  last  promise,  will  you 
grant  me  what  I  ask?  " 


/ 

'4. 


Xast  MorDs  witb  mtDcwt 


69 


.1  I 


V 

■4. 


The  struggle  was  visible  in  the  young  man's  face. 
A  deep  sigh  broke  from  him.  He  had  made  his 
vow  to  one  who  was  dead;  he  could  not  be  released 
by  her,  and  he  must  keep  it.  His  code  of  honor 
was  high.  The  word  of  a  De  Charolais  must  not 
be  broken.  And,  if  his  vow  must  be  kept,  the  Su- 
perior was  right,  Brebeuf  was  right,  he  must  flee 
temptation.  So  presently  he  said,  but  his  voice 
was  low:  "  Father,  I  promise,  except  I  be  sum- 
moned back  by  the  Superior,  except  I  do  it  with 
his  sanction,  I  will  see  her  face  no  more.  No  word 
of  mine  henceforth  shall  serve  to  keep  me  in  her 
memory,  and — she  may  forget." 

They  walked  on  in  silence  for  a  few  moments, 
then  Leon  said:  "  Father,  she,  too,  may  be  tempted. 
She  is  innocent  and  pure;  but  there  are  evil  hearts 
not  far  from  her.  Raoul  Hauteroche  you  know, 
and  she  should  know  that  he  is  not  to  be  trusted. 
Father,  I  have  told  her  that  you  would  go  to  her 
if  she  is  in  sorrow.  Will  you  see  her  soon,  and  com- 
fort her  if  her  heart  is  sore?  " 

"  I  will,  my  son;  so  long  as  I  live  I  will  be  mind- 
ful of  her.  Your  heart  may  rest  in  my  promise  as 
my  heart  has  trust  in  yours.  But,  Leon,  the  words 
of  the  holy  St.  Paul  have  been  ofttimes  in  my  mind 
of  late,  *  I  am  ready  to  be  sacrificed,  and  the  time 
of  my  dissolution  is  at  hand.'  It  is  borne  upon  me 
that  we  speak  together  for  the  last  time." 

Brebeuf  stopped,  and  put  his  hands  on  the  young 


>;      1 


'   ''  i 


p^'yW'WffWiijitiL  ii_;—."    ,^ 


70     tibe  IRomance  ot  a  Jesuit  /BMssion 


man's  shoulders  and  looked  into  his  face.  The 
moonlig'ht  was  so  bright  that  Leon  saw  the  quiver- 
ing of  the  strong  mouth,  the  moistening  of  the 
dark  eyes.  He  was  deeply  moved,  and  a  vague 
dread  of  coming  disaster  was  borne  upon  him.  Be- 
fore he  entered  the  novitiate  he  had  learned  some- 
thing of  the  scepticism  of  his  day;  he  had  heard 
discussions  whether  the  soul  is  mortal  and  ridicule 
regarding  certain  so-called  superstitions.  Doubt 
had  entered  his  mind  and  remained  there.  When 
he  had  expressed  his  doubts  in  confession,  his  con- 
fessor had  told  him  they  were  temptations  of  the 
devil.  He  had  tried  to  occupy  himself  in  work  and 
forget  them.  He  had  never  spoken  of  them  to 
Brebeuf ;  he  had  shrun!:  from  distressing  his  friend. 
Despite  Brebeuf's  cool  and  vigorous  judgment  and 
sober  sense  in  practical  matters,  he  is  regarded  as 
visionary  and  superstitious  by  men  of  our  time.  He 
believed  that  he  beheld  visible  presentations  from 
the  unseen  universe,  saw  portents,  heard  voices, 
was  tempted  of  hell,  and  succored  by  Heaven.  The 
visible  world  was  to  him  but  a  phase  of  the  eternal, 
spiritual  reaHty.  His  zeal  and  devotion  are  beyond 
question.  Leon  respected  his  earnestness,  and  had 
forborne  to  utter  a  word  of  incredulity  regarding 
the  marvellous  visions.  Now,  in  his  excited,  over- 
strained condition,  the  premonition  of  which  Bre- 
beuf had  spoken  had,  an  unusual  effect  upon  him, 
and  the  pain  of  parting  was  deepened  by  dread. 


Xaat  movt>B  witb  mtbcwf 


71 


For  several  moments  neither  spoke,  then  Bre- 
beuf  said,  "  My  son,  you  have  much  work  before 
you  to  prepare  for  your  departure,  and  I  must  not 
detain  you;  yet  would  I  gladly  keep  you  with  me 
now,  for  I  shall  see  your  face  no  more." 

"  O,  say  not  so,  Father.  God  grant  we  may  meet 
again." 

"Nay,  nay,  my  son;  pray  only  that  His  holy 
will  be  done.  Pray  for  me  that  I  be  faithful 
unto  death.  And  so  long  as  I  abide  in  this  body 
will  I  pray — yea,  when  the  body  is  broken  by  the 
martyrdom  which  is  coming  soon  upon  me,  my 
soul,  which  no  mortal  flame  can  sear,  nor  sword  of 
man  destroy,  will  pray  for  you  and,  if  it  be  per- 
mitted of  Heaven,  will  be  near  you  to  comfort  and 
sustain  you." 

Leon  could  not  answer,  and  Brebeuf  weni  on: 
"  Now  into  the  hands  of  God  I  commit  that  wliich 
I  have  held  most  dear.    Adieu,  my  son." 

Leon  was  tall,  but  the  giant-framed  Brebeuf,  the 
Ajax  of  the  Mission,  stooped  to  kiss  his  forehead — 
the  kiss  of  benediction — a  sacrament. 

Then  they  parted;  but  when  Leon  had  gone  a 
little  way  he  turned  and  saw  that  Brebeuf  stood, 
gazing  after  him.  For  a  moment  they  remained 
motionless,  one  looking  at  the  other  from  afar,  and 
then  they  went  their  separate  ways. 


]  l 


'  i\ 


\k 


!     t  \ 


S'/i 


h 


wmm 


IX 

jfatbcr  JBt^bcut  Visits  Dorotb^ 

As  soon  as  possible  after  the  departure  of  De 
Charolais,  Brebeuf  visited  the  fort  of  Sainte  Marie, 
and  inquired  concerning  Dorothy. 

The  Superior  said  she  was  not  gaining  strength, 
and  he  feared  she  was  fretting  because  Leon  had 
been  sent  away.  He  could  not  ascertain  anything 
of  her  state  of  mind  with  certainty;  she  was  not 
able  to  express  herself  clearly  in  French,  and  his 
conversations  with  her  had  been  brief.  But  even 
had  she  a  command  of  the  language  it  was  unlikely 
that  she  would  make  any  confession;  she  was  not 
a  Catholic,  and,  apart  from  the  confessional,  it 
might  be  difficult  to  induce  her  to  give  her  con- 
fidence to  a  priest.  Ragueneau  had  observed  that 
she  was  timid  and  uneasy  in  his  presence.  He  was 
glad  Brebeuf  had  come,  as  he  could  talk  with  her 
in  her  own  language. 

When  he  reached  Kishik's  lodge  in  the  palisades 
Brebeuf  paused.  It  was  a  mild  day,  and  the  little 
window  in  the  sitting-room  had  not  its  usual  thick 
coating  of  frost.  Dorothy  sat  near  it.  Her  work 
had  dropped  from  her  hand,  and  she  was  leaning 

72 


ffatbcr  JSr^bcut  IDlsfts  Borotbi?       73 

forward  in  deep  thought.  Brebeuf  stood  for  a  few 
moments,  looking  at  her  intently.  He  thought  he 
had  never  seen  an  expression  so  pathetic  on  a  face 
so  young.  No  ordinary  girlish  sorrow  had  left  its 
imprint  there.  Was  it  only  pining  for  Leon  and 
grief  for  separation  from  home  and  kindred?  Or 
had  there  been  deeper  tragedy  in  her  past?  The 
man  who  had  seen  much  of  human  joy  and  sorrow 
believed  that  she  had  suffered  bitterly. 

When  he  knocked,  Dorothy  opened  the  door. 
Her  face  brightened,  and  she  said,  "  I  know  you  are 
Father  Brebeuf." 

He  smiled  benignan'tly.  "  Yes,  my  child;  I  have 
come  to  see  you." 

"  Grandmother  Kishik  and  Nialona  have  gone 
out,"  she  said,  "  and  I  do  not  know  when  they  will 
return." 

It  was  evident  that  she  was  far  from  strong.  The 
blue  veins  in  her  forehead,  so  clearly  seen  beneath 
the  transparent  skin,  were  witnesses  of  her  fragility. 
Her  hair  was  coiled  about  her  shapely  head,  and 
fastened  with  pins  that  the  Indian  boys  had  carved 
from  bone  and  stained  in  shades  of  reddish  brown 
and  gold.  A  blue-fringed  cap  like  a  toque  sur- 
mounted the  golden  coils.  She  put  her  hand  to 
her  head  when  she  noticed  the  direction  of  the 
priest's  glance. 

"  Ah,  my  mind  wanders  sadly,  Father,  since  I 


// 


74     XTbe  IRomance  ot  a  Jesuit  AMssfon 


have  been  ill.  I  came  in  nearly  an  hour  ago,  and 
my  bonnet  is  on  my  head.    I  am  very  forgetful." 

"  I  fear  you  are  not  gaining  strength.  Have  you 
sufficient  nourishing  food?" 

"  Yes,  Father;  the  young  men,  the  Frenchmen 
and  the  Indians,  are  kind.  They  bring  us  many 
dainties — venison,  rabbits,  partridge,  and  fish — 
more  than  we  can  use.  We  often  send  portions  to 
the  sick  in  the  hospital." 

"  Did  not  the  Superior  direct  that  you  receive  no 
presents?  " 

"  He  did,  Father,  and  his  reason  was  explained 
to  me.  Others  might  be  displeased  because  so 
many  gifts  were  made  to  me;  yet  all  might  see  that 
becfuse  I  had  come  to  the  fort  ill  and  lonely  the 
gifts  were  prompted  by  sympathy  and  kindness, 
for  which  I  have  been  grateful." 

"  How  is  it  then,  my  daughter,  that  you  have 
disregarded  the  Superior's  instructions?  " 

Dorothy  tried  to  repress  a  smile.  "  Father,  they 
ofifer  me  nothing;  everything  is  now  bestowed  on 
Grandmother  Kishik.  She  has  often  said:  *  O, 
those  young  men,  they  once  did  leave  me  to  eat 
sagamite  day  after  day.  What  cared  they?  But 
their  hearts  change;  they  fill  my  house  with  all 
good  things.'  " 

Brebeuf  appreciated  the  humor  of  this  devotion 
by  proxy.  He  glanced  about  the  room.  Its  ap- 
pearance had  been  much  improved.     There  were 


( 


iratber  mtbcnt  Disits  Dorotbg        75 

new  fur  rugs  on  the  floor,  two  easy-chairs,  a  com- 
fortable couch,  and  a  pretty  rustic  work-table  on 
which  were  some  dainty  boxes  and  a  book-rest. 

"  Were  these  also  given  to  Madame  Kishik?  "  he 
asked. 

Yes,  Father;  they  were  presented  by  Monsieur 
Rene  le  Breton— the  table  and  the  book-rest— 
Grandmother  does  not  read.  The  rugs  and  some 
pretty  furs  and  feathers  were  the  gifts  of  others. 
Monsieur  Fourcheux  has  so  repaired  the  walls  that 
Grandmother  no  longer  complains  of  draughts,  and 
Alonsieur  le  Breton  has  made  an  excellent  oven  in 
the  kitchen  floor.  He  was  troubled  about  Grand- 
mother's appetite,  and  he  made  the  oven  so  we 
might  bake  bread.  It  may  be,  Father,  it  would 
please  you  to  see  our  kitchen." 

The  priest  was  aware  that  the  girl  was  talking 
rapidly  to  conceal  some  nervousness  and  embar- 
rassment; probably  she  feared  he  had  come  to  ques- 
tion her.  But  he  gave  no  sign  of  this  understand- 
mg,-and  smilingly  assented  to  her  proposal  to  visit 
the  kitchen  and  see  the  new  oven. 

Dorothy  showed  a  girlish  interest  and  pride  in 
the  contrivance.  The  oven  was  a  hole  in  the 
ground,  lined  with  stones.  Dorothy  explained  that 
it  was  a  few  inches  longer  and  wider  than  the  bak- 
ing-pans. The  cooks  placed  live  coals  in  the  bottom 
of  the  oven,  then  laid  in  their  pans,  filled  the  sides 
and  covered  the  top  with  coals.    When  they  cooked 


( 


I 


76     TTbc  IRomancc  ot  a  Jesuit  /fttsston 

game  they  put  water  in  the  pan,  and  when  the  birds 
were  done  there  was  an  excellent  gravy  surround- 
ing them.  "  But,  Father,"  Dorothy  went  on, 
"  when  we  cooked  our  first  partridges  we  were 
sadly  disappointed  when  we  lifted  them  from  their 
pan.  They  were  tender  and  pleasing  to  the  taste, 
but  white  as  though  they  had  been  boiled.  We 
now  hold  them  before  the  fire  until  they  are  of  a 
brown  color,  and  their  appearance  is  more  agree- 
able." 

She  went  to  a  cupboard,  which  was  also  the  work 
of  Rene  le  Breton,  and  took  out  a  pair  of  appetiz- 
ing partridges  and  a  jar  of  preserved  cranberries. 
"  Father,  Nialona  has  told  me  this  is  not  a  fast  day, 
though  it  is  in  the  season  of  Lent.  Will  you  gratify 
me  by  accepting  these  birds  for  your  supper?  They 
are  my  own.  Grandmother  Kishik  gave  them  to 
me  to  present  to  whom  it  pleased  me.  No,  you  will 
not  deprive  us  of  our  meal ;  we  have  already  a  suf- 
ficiency for  our  supper.  You  will  do  me  a  kindness 
by  enjoying  what  we  have  cooked;  and  cranberries, 
I  am  told,  are  wholesome  in  the  spring  season." 

Brebeuf  assented  on  condition  that  Father  Lale- 
mant  share  the  treat,  and  Dorothy  packed  them 
daintily  in  a  basket. 

"  The  poor  little  birds,"  said  she  when  they  had 
re*^urned  to  the  sitting-room;  **  they  are  happy  in 
life;  is  it  not  cruel  to  put  them  to  death  that  we 
may  live?    They  tell  me  if  our  men  did  not  shoot 


Ifatber  JBrebcut  Digits  IDorotb^        "n 

them  they  would  be  the  prey  of  other  wild  creat- 
ures. Yet,  why  must  they  suffer?  Why  should 
one  creature  prey  upon  another?  Why  is  life  so 
hard,  so  cruel?" 

"  Their  suffering,  child,  is  brief.  The  momentary 
pang  in  death  is  as  nothing  in  comparison  with 
their  enjoyment  of  life;  and  we  believe  they  do  not 
feel  pain  so  keenly  as  the  higher  creatures  do.  Do 
not  doubt  the  wisdom  and  goodness  of  our  Heav- 
enly Father  and  His  tender  care  for  all." 

"  I  have  read  in  the  Scriptures,  Father,  of  a  time 
to  come  when  *  They  shall  not  hurt  or  destroy  in 
all  my  holy  mountain.'    Ah,  I  would  it  might  come 

quickly!    But " 

"  What  is  it,  my  daughter?  Do  not  hesitate  to 
tell  me  anything  that  is  on  your  mind." 

"  I  have  heard.  Father,  that  those  of  your  faith 
do  not  read  the  Holy  Book.    Is  that  true?  " 

"  No,  my  child;  it  is  a  mistake.  We  read  a  por- 
tion of  the  Scriptures  daily." 

A  knock  interrupted  the  conversation.  Rene 
le  Breton  had  brought  a  pair  of  swinging  shelves 
for  Kishik's  books.  When  he  saw  the  priest,  he  left 
his  gift  with  some  embarrassment,  and  said  he  must 
return  at  once  to  his  companion,  Victor  Caradeuc. 
"  Did  not  Monsieur  le  Breton  bring  the  book- 
rest  to  Madame  Kishik?  "  asked  Brebeuf. 

"  Yes,  Father."    She  smiled  demurely.    "  There 


/] 


78     Zhc  IRomancc  ot  a  3csuit  ADigsion 


are  but  two  much-worn  books,  brought  from 
France  by  Nialona." 

"  Does  he  make  frequent  visits?  " 

"  Yes,  Father;  but  they  are  brief.  The  Superior 
has  directed  the  young  men  to  remain  without  the 
door  if  duty  requires  them  to  call.  Monsieur  Ic 
Breton  obtained  a  special  dispensation  to  enable 
him  to  finish  his  work  for  Grandmother  Kishik. 
But  since  that  time  he  has  not  been  permitted  to 
cross  the  threshold.  I  have  heard,  indeed,  that 
hereafter  they  may  be  forbidden  to  enter  the  pali- 
sades." 

Brebeuf  watched  her  keenly.  Nothing  in  her 
voice  or  expression  indicated  that  the  presence  or 
absence  of  the  young  men  was  of  any  interest  to 
her. 

"  But  I  have  been  informed  they  have  some  op- 
portunities to  talk  with  you,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  Father,  when  we  go  beyond  the  palisades 
to  slide  upon  the  ice,  or  walk  on  our  snowshoes, 
three  at  least  accompany  us  to  guard  us.  There  is 
always  fear  of  the  Iroquois.  But  one  of  the  priests 
is  also  with  us." 

Dorothy's  face  lighted  with  amusement.  The 
soldiers  or  traders  were  the  guard  of  the  white 
stranger  and  the  Huron  girls,  while  they,  in  their 
turn,  were  under  the  guard  of  a  priest. 

"  You  understand,  my  daughter,  the  necessity 
for  this  supervision,  that  a  young  girl  must  be  very 


I 


'I 


1\ 


I 


ifatbec  JSr^beut  tDisits  H)orotbi?        79 

discreet.  You  have  no  mother,  no  suitable  woman 
guardian  here  to  advise  you;  so  we  who  know  the 
world  must  do  so." 

"  I  think  I  am  discreet,  Father.  If  it  is  possible, 
I  walk  apart  with  one  of  the  girls.  And,  Father, 
in  our  convcrsatioi  we  are  discreet  of  necessity. 
They  know  few  words  of  my  language,  and  I  have 
little  acquaintance  with  theirs." 

"  Does  not  Monsieur  le  Breton  speak  English?  " 

"  But  poorly,  Father.  There  is  one.  Monsieur 
Hauteroche,  who  converses  in  English  with  ease; 
but  it  is  unnecessary  to  warn  me  to  have  few  words 
with  him.  Monsieur  Hauteroche  is  very  objection- 
able to  me." 

Dorothy  drew  herself  up,  and  her  eyes  flashed. 
A  bright  color  flamed  in  her  cheeks,  but  soon  faded 
and  gave  place  to  the  pallor  of  illness.  For  a 
moment  the  priest  had  a  glimpse  of  an  impulsive 
nature  concealed  beneath  an  appearance  of  indif- 
ference; though  probably  she  was  truly  indifferent 
to  many  things.  He  saw,  too,  that  if  returning 
health  should  restore  her  brilliant  coloring  she 
would  be  even  more  beautiful  than  she  was  now  in 
her  delicate  loveliness. 

He  asked  no  questions  about  Hauteroche.  He 
remembered  Leon's  warning;  and  he  had  for  a  long 
time  distrusted  the  young  trader.  He  would  ad- 
vise the  Superior  to  send  him  to  a  distance. 

The  time  was  passing  quickly,  and  he  had  not 


/ 


8o     XTbe  IRomance  of  a  Jesuit  /iDisslon 

said  what  lie  had  come  to  say.  Even  Leon  had  re- 
luctantly admitted  that  Dorothy  was  strangely  re- 
ticent about  herself.  She  had  evaded  the  answers 
to  many  questions,  sometimes  by  asking  questions 
about  others.  No  one  knew  what  her  family  name 
was.  In  response  to  inquiries  she  had  said,  with  a 
laugh  that  concealed  some  disquiet,  "  Call  me 
Dorothy.  What  need  have  I  here  of  any  other 
name?  " 

Yet,  had  she  been  practised  in  deceit,  she  might 
readily  have  coined  a  name. 

"  My  daughter,"  said  Brebeuf,  "  this  is  not  a 
suitable  place  for  you  to  Hve.  For  the  present,  it 
may  be  for  many  months  to  come,  we  must  keep 
you  here;  for  it  would  not  be  possible  to  return 
you  in  safety  to  your  proper  guardians.  But  as 
soon  as  may  be  we  must  communicate  with  them. 
Our  Huron  runners  sometimes  travel  long  dis- 
tances, through  many  perils.  A  message  borne  by 
them  to  Quebec  may  be  sent  to  England  to  your 
kinsfolk.  Where  and  to  whom  should  such  a  mes- 
sage be  sent? " 

Dorothy's  face  grew  whiter,  and  she  gave  a  little 
gasp  of  distress.    But  she  did  not  answer  a  word. 

Brebeuf  looked  very  grave.  "  My  dear  child,  it 
is  evident  that  my  question  pains  you;  but  I  must 
do  my  duty.  Is  it  possible  that  you  have  forsaken 
your  own  people?  You  are  hiding  a  secret  in  your 
heart;  we  must  not  aid  you  in  concealment." 


P 


Ifatber  mtbcwt  meits  H>orotb^       8i 


The  girl's  hands  were  clenched,  and  she  was 
trembling  violently.  "  Father,"  she  pleaded,  "  do 
not  ask  me.  Let  me  stay  here.  O,  believe  me,  it 
is  better  so;  better  for  me,  for  every  one." 

"  You  are  too  young  to  judge  what  is  best  for 
you;  and  we  cannot  if  we  do  not  know  the  truth. 
Trust  us.  If  you  have  done  any  wrong  we  will  not 
judge  you  harshly.  We  k:^ow  how  many  snares  are 
set  for  young  feet;  how  easy  it  is  for  such  to  stray 
from  the  paths  of  righteousness.  We  have  learned 
from  the  Divine  compassion  to  be  tender  and  com- 
passionate toward  all.  Only  trust  us,  and  do  not 
fear." 

The  girl's  slight  frame  writhed,  as  if  in  physical 
agony.  Loud  sobs,  from  a  heart  vjiiiUg  with  pain, 
broke  from  her.  In  a  moment,  to  Brebeuf's  sur- 
prise, she  was  kneeling  at  his  feet,  with  hei  !i<"?:l 
bowed  in  her  hands. 

**  I  want  to  be  good,"  she  cried,  with  choking 
voice.  "  I  want  to  do  right.  Indeed,  I  have  tried. 
I  will  b^  obedient.  I  will  be  helpful.  But  I  cannot, 
cannOi.  *  eli  you  what  you  ask.  May  I  not  begin  my 
lite  1  -re,  a  new  life,  and  put  away  from  me  all  the 
past?" 

Brebeuf  was  deeply  moved,  and  his  eyes  swam 
with  tears.  "  Poor  child,  poor  little  one;  yes,  I  be- 
lieve you  want  to  be  good,  but  it  is  not '  ossible  for 
you  to  conceal  all  your  past  and  remain  good  and 
true.    It  may  be  some  one  has  dealt  harshly  with 


1 


;'  i 

i   I 


32     XTbe  IRomance  of  a  Sesuft  ilDissfon 


yoi!,  made  you  fear  to  confess.  You  are  timid  and 
delicate;  you  liave  not  strength  to  tell  that  which 
would  ease  your  heart  if  told.  Here,  kneeling  as 
you  are,  ask  God  to  give  you  strength  to  do  your 
duty,  to  confess  your  sorrow,  or — your  sin." 

"  O,  Father,  Father,  I  cannot  tell  you.  It  is  not 
strength  lor  confession  that  I  need,  but  strength 
to  bear  my  silence." 

Footsteps  sounded  on  the  snow,  a  hand  was  laid 
on  the  latch.  Dorothy  sprang  to  her  feet,  and  tried 
to  look  undisturbed  when  Nialoiia  and  Washaka 
entered. 

Brebeuf,  wishing  to  divert  attention  from  her 
tear-stained  face,  began  to  question  the  Huron 
girls  about  the  school.  When  he  took  his  leave, 
Dorothy  followed  him  from  the  door.  *'  Father," 
she  said,  pitifully,  "  you  are  brave,  you  are  true,  and 
you  think  I  am  weak  and  false.  Perhaps,  if  I  could 
tell  you,  you  would  judge  differently.  But — I  can- 
not, O,  I  cannot.  Let  me  take  my  silence  to  the 
grave.    I  would  I  might  take  it  there  now." 

"  It  may  be,  my  daughter,  that  you  hold  the 
secret  of  another,  that  it  seems  to  you  it  would  be 
dishonor  to  reveal  it.  Were  you  of  our  faith  you 
would  understand  that  in  the  confessional,  where 
every  confidence  is  sacred,  the  inmost  secrets  of 
every  hear't  may  be  disclosed,  to  the  heart's  great 
comfort.  We  will  talk  of  this  another  day;  but, 
believe  me,  I  do  not  wish  to  force  your  secret  from 


i: 


.M'-    ^-.^-ijg*-   «g'--''^^^^- 


fatbct  JBvtHwt  msits  2)orotbs       83 


you.  I  hope  the  time  may  come  when  you  will 
give  me  your  confidence  freely." 

Dorothy  did  not  answer,  and  Brebeuf  said,  "  The 
March  air  is  cold  for  your  uncovered  head.  I  will 
see  you  again.  And  I  will  pray  for  you,  my 
daughter." 

"  I  thank  you,  Father." 

She  watched  him  as  he  walked  to  the  gate  of  the 
palisades.  She  was  glad  he  had  ^aid  he  would  come 
another  day.  She  little  knew  that  he  would  never 
walk  that  path  again. 


|1 


'I 


1     : 


Zbc  f  roQuois !  Ubc  froauofs  I 


The  missionaries  passed  many  anxious  hours  in 
the  spring  .lays  of  1649.  Rtmiors  of  the  approach 
of  the  Iroquois  were  renewed,  but  the  Huron  men 
remained  indifferp.it. 

In  the  fort  and  the  pahsades  work  went  on  as 
usual.  Nialona  taught  daily  in  the  school,  and 
Dorothy,  who  had  learned  some  Huron  words,  was 
able  to  instruct  the  little  ones. 

After  school  hours,  with  a  guard  of  strong  Hu- 
ron boys  and  one  or  two  soldiers  or  traders  from 
the  fort,  the  young  teachers  took  their  pupils  out 
for  recreation.  Sometimes  they  made  snow  forts 
and  soldiers  and  had  friendly  battles.  At  other 
times  they  walked  on  snowshoes,  slid  on  the  ice, 
or  coasted  down  the  neighboring  hills. 

On  the  bright  days  of  early  spring  the  stronger 
ones  tramped  over  the  sparkling  snow  to  the  near 
w^oods  to  tap  maple-trees.  There  had  been  thaws, 
and  they  often  plunged  waist-deep  in  slush,  and 
went  through  the  woods  in  damp,  clinging  gar- 
ments.   But  they  kept  themselves  warm  by  active 

exercise,  and  suffered  no  ill  effects.    When  Dor- 

84 


Ube  IroQuofa  l  Ube  Iroquois ! 


85 


othy  showed  signs  of  fatigue  the  boys  drew  her  on 
their  sleds,  in  turn. 

They  gathered  the  sap  in  troughs  hewn  from  the 
solid  wood,  and  boiled  it  in  large  pots  over  great 
log  fires.  The  skies  were  clear,  the  air  was  mild, 
and  the  young  people  were  in  merry  mood.  Their 
laughter  rang  through  the  woods  when  they  went 
from  tree  to  tree  to  collect  the  sap,  or  stood  at 
night  about  the  huge  fires  in  the  clearing,  taking 
turns  in  stirring  the  boiling  liquid  till  the  grain  of 
the  sugar  formed,  now  and  then  pouring  some,  to 
candy,  en  the  snow.  When  their  work  was  done, 
when  they  piled  great  cakes  of  sugar  and  earthen 
vessels  full  of  luscious  syrup  on  the  sledges,  they 
went  home  gleefully  to  house  their  sweet  stores. 

They  knew  that  their  elders  were  anxious,  that 
all  must  be  watchful,  but  the  element  of  danger 
gave  an  added  fascination  to  their  pleasures. 

Their  thoughtless,  pleasuraole  excitement  in  the 
vicinity  of  peril  gave  place  to  a  terrible  realization. 

Early  one  morning  the  sentries  were  alarmed  by 
great  clouds  of  smoke  that  rose  above  the  leafless 
forest  from  the  southeast.  Then  tongues  of  flame 
shot  upward,  and  smoke  and  flame  were  seen  in  the 
direction  of  the  Mission  of  St.  Louis. 

One  looked  at  another,  and  then  the  words  broke 
forth:  "  The  Iroquois!  The  Iroquois!  They  have 
taken  the  town!  They  are  burning  it  to  the 
ground! " 


86     ube  IRomance  ot  a  3esuit  ilDlssion 


The  alarm  was  given  to  all  in  the  fort,  and  white 
lips  asked  the  vain  question,  "  Where  are  Brebeuf 
and  Lalemant?    What  has  happened  to  them?" 

But  they  must  not  spend  time  in  anxious  queries. 
The  victorious  Iroquois  might  be  already  on  the 
march  to  Sainte  Marie,  and  hurried  preparations 
must  be  made  to  resist  them. 

"  Bring  in  the  women  and  children  from  the  pali- 
sades," was  the  order.  "  We  cannot  defend  them 
there.    We  must  concentrate  our  forces." 

Soldiers  and  traders  hurried  to  a  scene  of  terror 
and  confusion.  The  sick  and  feeble  imagined  that 
their  barbarous  foes  were  already  at  their  gates. 
The  little  ones  had  caught  the  infection  of  fear,  and 
were  screaming  and  clinging  to  their  elders.  The 
girls  from  the  lodge,  with  some  of  the  women,  were 
trying  to  pacify  and  encourage  the  terrified  crowd. 
Some  young  boys  were  running  about  excitedly, 
shouting  their  war  cries.  The  older  ones,  who  real- 
ized the  gravity  of  the  situation,  had  begun  to  make 
preparations  for  removal  to  the  fort.  But  they 
were  not  ill-pleased  at  the  prospect  of  a  fight.  They 
had  been  under  military  ''^rill,  and  when  a  soldier 
sounded  a  call  they  responded,  ran  to  the  open 
space  near  him,  and  formed  in  line. 

He  directed  the  older  ones  to  move  the  sick  to 
the  fort  on  sledges.  The  younger  boys  were  or- 
dered to  assise  in  the  removal  of  the  little  children 
or  in  carrying  bundles.     Provisions,  bedding,  and 


Ube  Iroquois !  Ube  Iroquois ! 


87 


clothing  were  strapped  on  the  backs  of  boys  and 
girls,  and  the  march  began. 

In  a  short  time  every  inhabitant  of  the  paHsades 
was  transferred  to  Sainte  Marie.  Then,  when  the 
scouts  reported  that  no  Iroquois  were  in  sight, 
some  went  to  and  fro  carrying  food  and  Hght  fur- 
niture to  the  fort.  The  siege  might  be  long,  and 
the  Iroquois  would  probably  burn  the  palisades. 

The  women  and  children  were  assigned  to  the 
lodges  which  were,  in  times  of  peace,  for  the  use 
of  visiting  Hurons.  The  older  boys  were  instructed 
and  made  ready  for  action  in  case  of  attack.  There 
were  about  forty  Frenchmen,  well  armed,  in  the 
fort. 

They  would  gladly  have  gone  to  the  rescue  of  the 
priests  of  St.  Louis.  It  was  terrible  to  wait  in  the 
fort,  not  knowing  what  had  happened  and  unable 
to  help  those  whom  they  loved  so  well.  But  dis- 
tant war-whoops  had  told  them  that  they  had  sur- 
mised truly;  the  Iroquois  had  been  victorious,  and 
the  handful  of  men,  were  they  rash  enough  to  at- 
tempt the  rescue,  would  but  serve  to  whet  the  thirst 
for  blood  of  those  who  were  drunk  with  victory. 

Presently  two  runners,  spent  and  breathless, 
approached  the  gates.  They  were  recognized  as 
Christian  Hurons,  and  admitted.  They  brought 
news  of  the  attack  on  St.  Louis  and  the  capture  of 
St.  Ignace.  Some  of  their  companions  had  escaped 
from  the  mission  soon  after  the  attack  had  been 


88     zbc  IRomance  of  a  3esutt  /IDtsslon 

begun,  and  had  set  out  to  try  to  make  their  way 
through  the  forests  ^-o  St.  Jean  and  St.  Matthias, 
the  far-away  missions  oi  the  Tobacco  Nation.  The 
two  priests  at  St.  Louis  had  refused  to  fly,  and  the 
fugitives  knew  nothing  of  their  fate. 

St.  Ignace,  St.  Louis,  and  three  other  villages, 
formed  the  mission  of  which  Brebeuf  and  Lalemant 
had  charge.  St.  Ignace  was  defended  on  three  sides 
by  a  deep  ravine,  and  strengthened  by  palisades 
fifteen  or  sixteen  feet  high.  On  the  fourth  side  it 
was  protected  by  palisades  alone,  and  these  were 
often  left  unguarded.  A  great. part  of  the  popula- 
tion had  abandoned  the  town,  believing  it  to  be 
too  much  exposed  to  the  enemy.  At  the  time  of 
the  attack  there  were  about  four  hundred  people, 
for  the  most  part  women,  children,  and  old  men, 
in  the  place.  The  warriors  were  hunting,  or  on 
scalping  parties  against  the  Iroquois. 

The  foe  had  come  on  snowshoes  through  the 
forest,  lurking  in  ambush  when  any  were  near  who 
would  carry  an  alarm.  The  blind,  indifferent  Hu- 
rons  had  not  seen,  or  had  not  heeded,  the  prints  in 
the  snow.  The  enemy  had  silently  approached  St. 
Ignace  in  the  night,  stealthily  peered  about  it 
through  the  darkness,  and  entered  by  the  weakest 
side.  There  was  no  exit  on  the  other  sides,  and 
only  three  Hurons  escaped,  followed  in  their  flight 
by  the  shrieks  and  moans  of  the  wounded  and  dying, 


Ube  Vcoquots  t  Zbe  Iroduoia  i 


89 


the  unavailing  cries  and  entreaties  of  women  and 
children. 

The  conquerors  smeared  their  faces  with  blood, 
left  a  guard  to  hold  the  town,  and  rushed  in  the 
early  dawn  toward  St.  Louis,  about  three  miles 
distant. 

About  sunrise  the  inhabitants  had  been  roused 
by  wild  yells  without  the  walls.  The  three  fugitives 
from  St.  Ignace  were  entreating  for  admittance 
and  urging  the  people  of  St.  Louis  to  escape.  The 
greater  number  heeded  the  alarm,  and  fled  to  seek 
safety,  but  the  old,  sick,  and  decrepit  were  left 
helpless  in  the  lodges. 

Brebeuf  had  resisted  the  entreaties  of  his  con- 
verts, and  refused  to  forsake  his  place  beside  the 
helpless  people.  The  sensitive  and  delicate  Lale- 
mant  trembled,  spite  of  his  efforts  for  composure, 
yet  he  remained  steadfastly  by  his  colleague. 

The  Huron  fugitives  could  not  tell  the  anxious 
watchers  at  Sainte  Marie  a  word  of  the  present 
condition  of  the  priests;  but  there  was  little  room 
for  hope  that  they  had  escaped  capture — and 
capture,  in  the  hands  of  the  Iroquois,  meant  tor- 
ture, if  not  death. 

Some  of  the  women  went  to  the  church  to  pray. 
And  Dorothy,  Protestant  bred,  prostrated  herself 
before  the  altar,  in  agonized  appeal  for  the  brave, 
strong,  tender  man  who  was  in  deadly  peril. 

Amid  their  great  anxiety  the  Fathers  saw  the 


90     ube  IRonmnce  of  a  Jesuit  /iDission 

need  for  restoring  order  and  calming  fear.  The 
cliildren  were  roaming  at  will  about  the  fort;  some 
were  crying  for  food,  and  the  mothers  were  un- 
mindful that  any  were  hungry.  The  mothers  and 
older  girls  were  assembled,  by  order  of  the  Su- 
perior, and  instructed.  Work  must  go  on,  dis- 
cipline must  be  maintained,  though  conditions  were 
changed  and  peril  was  at  the  gates.  A  large  lodge 
was  set  apart  as  a  schoolroom;  the  girls  who  had 
taught  in  the  palisades  were  directed  to  resume 
their  classes;  others  were  appointed  to  help  the 
mothers  with  the  younger  children.  Arrangements 
were  made  for  the  daily  supply  of  provisions,  the 
preparation  of  meals;  and  the  crowded  lodges  were 
divided,  as  well  as  possible,  for  the  many  families. 

Nialona  was  commended  for  her  fortitude  and 
presence  of  mind.  She  was  invaluable  to  the  mis- 
sionaries; she  never  appeared  to  shrink  from  a 
duty;  she  was  kind,  in  her  way,  especially  to  those 
who  submitted  to  her  without  question;  but 
Dorothy  found  her  dictatorial,  and  Nialona  felt 
that  Dorothy  should  show  more  gratitude  for  all 
the  care  she  had  received  in  her  illness.  Dorothy 
had  tried  to  be  truly  grateful,  but  something  in 
the  hardness  of  Nialona's  nature  repelled  her. 

The  missionaries  were  surprised  by  her  apparent 
calmness.  She  was  very  pale,  but  made  no  ex- 
pression of  alarm,  and  went  about  the  duties  as- 
signed to  her  in  a  remarkably  quiet  and  orderly 


Ubc  Iroquoid !  Ube  Vroauois ! 


91 


way.  Apart  from  her  distress  for  Brebeuf's  sake, 
the  peril  and  excitement  seemed  ahnost  a  relief 
from  the  misery  of  her  own  thoughts.  For  the 
time  they  took  her  out  of  herself. 

Toward  evening  the  men  on  the  watch-towers 
saw  the  Iroquois  scouts  prowling  along  the  borders 
of  the  forest.  The  lamps  were  kept  burning  all 
night,  and  all  night,  in  the  chapel  and  in  the  resi- 
dence, prayer  was  said  by  one  or  another.  The 
festival  of  St.  Joseph  was  at  hand.  Each  priest 
made  a  vow  to  say  a  mass  in  his  honor  every  month 
for  a  year;  others  bound  themselves  by  vows  to 
various  penances. 

Early  in  the  morning  a  dark,  moving  body  was 
seen  in  the  distance,  and  the  cry  went  forth  that 
the  Iroquois  were  at  hand.  But,  before  long, 
friendly  faces  were  recognized.  Three  hundred 
warriors,  who  were  chiefly  converts  from  the  mis- 
sions of  La  Conception  and  Sainte  Madeleine,  ar- 
rived at  the  fort,  and  reported  that  others  were 
coming  to  aid  in  the  defence.  They  were  fairly 
well  armed,  and  eager  to  fight.  Several  bands  of 
them  took  posts  by  the  passes  of  the  forest,  hop- 
ing to  waylay  parties  of  the  enemy. 

But  a  short  time  passed  before  the  watchers  in 
the  fort  heard  the  cries  of  battle.  Two  hundred 
Iroquois,  who  had  made  their  way  from  St.  Ignace 
to  begin  the  attack  on  the  fort,  came  on  one  of  the 
Huron  bands,  slaughtered  many,  and  put  the  rest 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
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Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

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^ 


C/jL 


92     XCbe  IRomance  of  a  Sesuit  ADfsdfon 

to  flight.  Those  who  escaped  fled  to  seek  refuge 
in  Sainte  Marie.  But  their  cries  had  brought  their 
comrades  to  their  rescue.  In  their  turn  they  routed 
the  Iroquois,  who  ran  for  St.  Louis,  with  the  victors 
at  their  heels.  The  houses  had  been  burned  and 
the  inhabitants  killed  or  taken  bound  to  St.  Ignace; 
but  the  palisades,  though  breached  and  broken, 
might  avail  for  defence. 

The  pursuing  Hurons  came  upon  them,  and  were 
again  victorious.  But  some  of  the  Iroquois  who 
escaped  ran  on  toward  St.  Ignace  and  joined  the 
main  body.  Then  all  the  enraged  warriors  hastened 
back  to  St.  Louis  for  revenge. 

So  many  Hurons  had  been  killed  or  disabled  that 
the  force  within  the  broken  palisades  did  not  much 
exceed  one  hundred  and  fifty.  For  weapons  they 
had  bows  and  arrows,  war-clubs,  hatchets,  knives, 
and  a  few  guns.  The  Iroquois  had  a  larger  force, 
and  most  of  the  men  were  armed  with  guns.  But 
the  Hurons  fought  with  the  courage  of  despair, 
and  drove  back  their  assailants  time  after  time. 
Forgetful  of  caution,  they  made  repeated  sallies. 
Darkness  came  on,  but  yell  answered  yell,  and  fierce 
sally  was  met  by  desperate  resistance.  The  battle, 
which  was  one  of  the  fiercest  in  Indian  annals,  con- 
tinued far  into  the  night ;  but  at  last  the  Iroquois 
prevailed.  Their  principal  chief  was  wounded, 
nearly  one  hundred  of  their  warriors  had  been 
killed,   and   their  prize   was   only  abcitt    twenty 


trbc  f  roqttoia  I  ZTbe  f  roQuofs  I        ^ 

wounded  and  exhausted  Hurons.  The  others  lay 
dead  about  the  broken  palisades. 

The  scouts  from  Sainte  Marie,  listening  under 
the  pines,  heard  the  din  of  battle  rising  far  into  the 
night.  Again  the  lamps  burned  all  night  in  the 
fort,  and  the  defenders  watched,  muskets  in  hand. 

And  all  the  next  day  they  watched,  but  not  an 
Iroquois  appeared.  A  strange  stillness,  which 
seemed  ominous,  succeeded  the  turmoil,  and  the 
Father  Superior  wrote,  "  It  was  as  if  the  country 
were  waiting,  palsied  with  fright,  for  some  new 
disaster." 


XI 

/l^ari:l?r^om•   ^tewell  ObceetiQC  ot  JSrebeut 

Days  passed  before  the  Fathers  at  Sainte  Marie 
heard  the  story  of  the  martyrdom  of  their  com- 
panions. 

On  the  fateful  morning  the  few  warriors  who  had 
remained  for  the  defence  of  St.  Louis  had  sung 
their  war  songs,  and  resolved  to  hold  it  to  the  last. 

The  sun  had  just  risen  when  the  Iroquois,  stained 
with  the  blood  of  their  victims  at  St.  Ignace,  came 
yelling  to  the  assault.  Yell  was  met  by  yell,  shot  by 
shot.  The  Hurons  fought  bravely.  Twice  they 
drove  back  the  Iroquois;  twice  the  Iroquois,  like 
wild  beasts  that  have  tasted  blood,  renewed  their 
ferocious  charge.  They  hacked  the  palisades  with 
their  hatchets,  cut  through  them  at  several  points, 
and  there  was  a  deadly  fight  at  the  breaches. 

At  last  the  Iroquois  broke  in  and  captured  the 
surviving  defenders.  They  set  the  town  on  fire, 
and  the  sick  and  feeble  were  consumed  in  the  burn- 
ing dwellings.  They  stripped  and  bound  Brebeuf 
and  Lalemant,  and  drove  them  with  the  other  pris- 
oners to  St.  Ignace.  There  all  turned  out  and 
savagely  beat  the  two  priests  with  sticks  and  clubs 

94 


i% 


JSr^beuf '0  farewell  /Dessage 


95 


a 


till  they  entered  the  town.  Then  they  left  them 
for  a  time.  They  had  other  work  in  hand.  The 
torture  could  wait.  The  victors  divided  themselves 
into  bands  to  burn  the  neighboring  villages  and 
hunt  those  who  fled. 

But  on  the  afternoon  of  that  day,  the  sixteenth 
of  March,  they  found  time  to  wreak  their  vengeance 
on  the  Jesuit  Fathers.  They  led  Brebeuf  apart  and 
bound  him  to  a  stake;  but  they  could  not  bind  his 
dauntless  spirit.  In  a  loud  voice  he  urged  the  cap- 
tive converts  to  endure  with  patience;  their  trials 
would  be  short,  and  Heaven  would  be  their  reward. 

As  he  stood  there  he  saw  a  band  of  Christian 
Huron  lads  of  St.  Ignace.  Their  captors  hoped  to 
torment  them  by  the  sight  of  the  last  agonies  of 
the  priests. 

"  O,  Father,  Father,"  they  cried,  "  our  hearts 
suffer  for  vou! " 

He  knew  that  their  lives  would  probably  be 
spared ;  that  they  would  be  adopted  into  the  fam- 
ilies of  the  Iroquois. 

"  My  sons,"  he  said,  "  stand  fast  in  the  Faith. 
Wherever  you  go,  whatever  may  befall  you,  trust 
in  God  and  keep  your  souls  pure." 

His  thoughts  flew  to  another  young  soul  in 
peril.  The  remembrance  of  his  last  meeting  with 
her,  of  his  anxiety  for  her  and  the  young  man  whom 
he  loved  as  a  son,  moved  him  as  no  dread  of  his  own 
fate  could  move;  and  he  lifted  up  his  heart  in  prayer 


wmm 


96     Ube  IRomance  ot  a  Jesuit  /IMsdion 

for  the  soul  of  the  girl  and  the  soul  of  the  man  who 
loved  her.  In  that  love  there  was  danger  and  sor- 
row for  both.  He  knew,  too,  that  the  girl  was  op- 
pressed by  some  secret  which  she  could  not  or 
would  not  speak,  perhaps  some  mystery  of  her  past, 
some  wrong  of  others  for  which  she  was  not  ac- 
countable. He  had  hoped  to  see  her  again,  perhaps 
to  hear  her  confession,  if  not,  at  least  to  give  her 
some  comfort  and  counsel;  but  it  had  been  ordained 
that  she  should  never  again  receive  help  from  him. 
In  the  few  moments  when  his  captors  left  him 
bound  while  they  prepared  other  victims  for  the 
torture  his  thoughts  seemed  luminous;  his  hopes 
and  fears,  his  questionings  and  their  answers, 
flashed  before  him. 

Perhaps  one  or  more  of  the  lads  might  escape, 
might  see  Leon  or  Dorothy.  He  would  give  a 
message,  though  it  might  never  be  delivered. 

The  boys  had  learned  a  little  French,  and  he 
spoke  to  them  in  that  language,  so  the  enemy 
should  not  understand. 

"  My  sons,"  he  said,  "  if  you  see  again  your  white 
sister  at  the  fort,  tell  her  that  in  the  hour  of  my 
death  I  remembered  my  promise  to  speak  with  her 
again.  She  will  know  that  I  could  not  fulfil  it,  but 
I  send  her  my  last  words.  Tell  her  that,  in  dying, 
I  prayed  for  her,  prayed  that  her  heart  might  trust 
in  God,  that  she  might  find  strength  and  peace. 

"  And,  my  lads,  there  is  another  to  whom  I  would 


33r^beut'0  farewell  A>eddaae         97 

send  a  message,  one  whom  you  know  well,  the 
Brother  Leon  de  Charolais.  Tell  him  from  me  that 
my  thoughts  were  with  him  in  my  last  hours,  that 
I  loved  him  to  the  end.  Tell  him  I  prayed  he  might 
inherit  the  blessings  of  God,  promised  to  him  that 
overcometh.  I  held  him  in  my  arms,  lads,  when 
he  was  an  infant;  and  he  is  very  dear  to  me." 

The  tormentors  returned.  Brebeuf  had  hardly 
time  to  give  a  brief  message  for  the  Fathers  at  the 
fort,  when  the  angry  Iroquois,  seeking  to  silence 
him,  scorched  him  from  head  to  foot.  But,  without 
flinching,  he  continued  his  exhortations  to  his  fel- 
low captives.  They  cut  away  his  lower  lip,  and 
thrust  a  red  hot  iron  down  his  throat ;  but  he  held 
himself  erect  and  dauntless. 

He  would  not  yield  nor  show  sign  of  suffering 
for  any  torture  they  could  devise  for  his  body,  and 
they  sought  to  overcome  him  through  his  sym- 
pathies. 

They  tied  strips  of  bark,  smeared  with  pitch, 
about  the  naked  body  of  Lalemant,  and  led  him 
out  that  Brebeuf  might  witness  his  sufYcrings. 

Poor  Lalemant  could  not  conceal  his  agitation 
at  the  condition  of  his  Superior.  Throwing  him- 
self at  Brebeuf's  feet,  he  cried,  in  a  broken  voice, 
"  We  are  made  a  spectacle  to  the  world,  to  angels, 
and  to  men." 

The  Iroquois  seized  him,  fastened  him  to  a  stake, 
and  set  fire  to  the  enveloping  bark.    Throwing  his 


I 


I  i 


98     xcbe  IRomance  ot  a  Jesuit  Aission 

arms  upward,  he  cried  'oud  to  Heaven.  Through- 
out his  tortures,  at  times,  ne  seemed  beside  himself; 
but  he  ralHed,  and  with  upUfted  hands  offered  his 
sufferings  as  a  sacrifice. 

The  tormentors  hung  round  Brebeuf's  neck  a  col- 
lar of  hatchets,  heated  red  hot,  but  he  stood  un- 
moved. 

"  Pour  hot  water  on  their  heads,"  cried  a  rene- 
gade Huron,  who  had  been  adopted  by  the  Iro- 
quois; "  they  have  poured  so  much  cold  water  on 
the  heads  of  others." 

The  savages  slowly  poured  the  boiling  water  on 
the  heads  of  the  two  missionaries,  exclaiming,  "  We 
baptize  you,  that  you  may  be  happy  in  Heaven; 
for  nobody  can  be  saved  without  a  good  baptism." 

"  We  wish  to  make  you  happy,"  cried  other 
renegade  Hurons.  "  You  have  told  us  that  the 
more  one  suffers  on  earth,  the  happier  he  is  in 
Heaven.  We  torment  you  because  we  love  you, 
and  you  ought  to  thank  us  for  it." 

Through  revolting  tortures  Brebeuf  repressed  all 
sign  of  suffering.  At  last,  seeing  him  nearly  dead, 
they  laid  open  his  breast,  and  the  warriors  drank 
his  blood,  believing  they  might  imbibe  some  of  his 
courage. 

The  slender  Lalemant  lingered  for  hours  after 
the  death  of  his  robust  companion,  until  an  Iro- 
quois put  an  end  to  his  sufferings  with  the  blow  of 
a  hatchet. . 


Sribeut'd  JTareweU  ObceeaQc        99 

Brebeuf  had  many  times  expressed  his  desire  to 
die  for  the  Faith.  He  had  bound  himself  by  a  vow 
never  to  refuse  the  grace  of  martyrdom,  but  to 
accept  it  at  the  hand  of  God  with  all  the  content- 
ment and  joy  of  his  heart. 

It  is  said  that  he  came  of  the  race  from  which 
sprang  the  English  Earls  of  Arundel.  The  courage 
of  a  noble  line,  the  enthusiasm  of  a  devotee,  enabled 
this  soldier  of  the  Cross  to  meet  the  most  excruci- 
ating tortures  and  a  terrible  death  with  almost 
matchless  heroism. 


! 


XII 

XTbe  Seatcb  tor  tbe  S)eab 

On  the  nineteenth  of  March,  the  festival  of  St. 
Joseph,  some  fugitive  Indians  arrived  at  Sainte 
Marie  in  great  excitement.  The  Iroquois  at  St. 
Ignace  had  been  seized  with  a  ppnic,  believing  that 
the  Hurons  were  coming  upon  them  in  force.  The 
chiefs  had  been  unable  to  control  them,  and  they 
were  about  to  abandon  the  place. 

The  news  was  true.  But  before  they  retreated 
the  savages  committed  another  atrocity.  They 
planted  stakes  in  the  bark  houses,  and  bound  to 
them  all  the  prisoners  whom  they  did  not  wish  to 
preserve  alive.  Old  men,  women,  and  young  chil- 
dren were  placed  side  by  side.  Then  they  set  fire 
to  the  town,  and  yelled  with  delight  as  the  shrieks 
of  their  victims  rose  from  the  burning  dwellings.* 

They  loaded  the  stronger  prisoners  with  plunder, 

*  "  The  site  of  St.  Ignace  still  bears  evidence  of  the  catas- 
trophe in  the  ashes  and  charcoal  that  indicate  the  position  of 
the  houses,  and  the  fragments  of  broken  pottery,  and  half 
consumed  bone,  together  with  trinkets  of  stone,  metal,  or 
glass,  which  have  survived  the  lapse  of  two  centuries  and 
more.  The  place  has  been  minutely  examined  by  Dr.  Tach6." 
— Parkman. 

lOO 


Ube  Searcb  toe  tbe  S)eab 


lOl 


/ 


and  drove  them  through  the  forests  southward, 
killing  any  who  gave  out  on  the  march. 

An  old  woman,  who  had  escaped  from  the  flames 
of  St.  Ignace,  made  her  way  through  the  forest  to 
St.  Michel,  a  large  town  not  far  from  the  ruins  of 
St.  Joseph.  St.  Joseph,  or  Teanaustaye,  had  been 
the  mission  of  Father  Daniel,  who  had  been  mar- 
tyred by  the  Iroquois  on  the  4th  of  July,  1648.  She 
found  at  St.  Michel  about  seven  hundred  Huron 
warriors,  and  set  them  on  the  track  of  the  retreat- 
ing enemy.  But  they  could  not,  or  would  not, 
overtake  them,  and  after  two  days  gave  up  the 
attempt. 

Other  fugitives  from  the  burned  towns,  instead 
of  seeking  Sainte  Marie,  followed  those  who  had 
fled  from  St.  Louis  to  the  towns  of  the  Tobacco 
Nation  in  the  Blue  Mountains.  They  struggled 
through  the  soft  snow  in  the  forest  until  they 
reached  Lake  Huron,  which  was  still  covered  by 
the  treacherous  ice  of  spring.  They  ventured  upon 
it,  and  travelled  all  that  day  and  the  following  night 
until,  cold  and  starving,  they  found  their  refuge. 

On  the  morning  of  the  twentieth  a  priest  from 
the  fort,  with  seven  soldiers,  set  out  for  the  ruins  of 
St.  Ignace.  They  found  there  the  half-consumed 
bodies  of  those  who  had  perished  in  the  burned 
dwellings,  and  horrors  upon  horrors.  At  last,  apart 
from  the  rest,  they  came  upon  the  scorched  and 
mangled  remains  of  the  martyr  priests. 


/. 


I02    ube  l^omance  ot  a  5eduit  Aisston 


They  had  been  told  of  their  death.  «^^  their  tort- 
ures, hut  the  sight  renewed  their  grief  and  horror. 
Witli  breaking  hearts  they  took  up  the  bodies  and 
carried  them  to  Sainte  Marie.  They  were  buried 
in  tlie  cemetery,  but  the  skull  of  Brebeuf  was  pre- 
served as  a  relic. 

The  danger  of  an  Iroquois  attack  had  passed 
for  the  time,  and  the  inhabitants  of  the  palisades 
returned  to  their  homes.  The  evening  after  the 
burial  Nialona  and  Dorothy  were  standing  near 
Kishik's  lodge,  watching  a  wonderful  aurora.  Its 
brilliant  coruscations  of  many  hues  seemed  to  shoot 
up  from  beyond  the  forests  on  all  sides,  uniting  in 
a  corona  at  the  zenith. 

"  O,  Dorothy,  behold!"  exclaimed  Nialona. 
"  See  above  you  the  symbol  of  their  glory.  It  is 
the  martyrs*  crown! " 

But  Dorothy  put  her  hands  before  her  eyes.  She 
could  not  look  beyond  the  tortures  of  which  she 
had  heard  to  the  joys  of  martyrdom.  The  brave 
and  tender  priest,  whose  sympathy  had  consoled 
her,  whose  strength  would  have  supported  her,  had 
been,  and  now  was  not.  Perhaps  he  lived  else- 
where; but  his  words  of  counsel  and  strength  would 
never  again  sound  in  her  ears,  unless  she  should 
some  day  reach  that  unknown  land  to  which — so 
they  told  her — he  had  gone.  But  what  was  that 
far-off  day  to  her  who  needed  help  and  counsel  in 
the  sorrow  of  her  youth? 


I 


Zbc  Searcb  tor  tbe  S)eab 


103 


Nialona  was  tmpailent  with  her  companion's 
grief,  and  felt  jealously  that  Dorothy  was  usurping; 
her  privileges.  The  stranger  had  seen  the  good 
Father  but  twice.  What  right  had  r.he  to  go  re- 
fusing to  be  comforted?  Nialona  had  been  in- 
structed by  him,  had  helped  him,  had  often  received 
his  commendation  for  faithful  work;  yet  she  was 
bearing  her  bereavement  with  resignation. 

But  that  night  the  bitternt  of  Dorothy's  sor- 
row was  softened.  A  priest  came  from  the  fort  with 
one  of  the  Huron  boys  v  m  had  escaped  from  St. 
Ignace,  and,  calling  hei  apart  irom  Nialona,  gave 
her  the  last  messap^e  of  Father  iirebeuf. 

Far  ofT,  pacing  back  and  forth  under  the  gloomy 
pines  near  St.  Matthias,  was  Leon  de  Charolais. 
He,  too,  had  heard  that  last  mesi-age  from  one  who 
had  sought  refuge  in  the  distant  town.  Beyond 
the  forest  he,  too,  saw  the  lances  of  light  shooting 
upward  in  the  northern  sky.  But  the  coronal 
splendor  had  no  significance  to  him  of  the  martyrs' 
crown.  What  proof  had  he  of  any  life  hereafter? 
Schools  of  philosophy  had  argued  th:it  the  soul  of 
man  is  mortal.  Perhaps  they  were  right,  and  who 
could  tell?  He  was  by  nature  sceptical,  and  his 
rebellion  against  the  life  which  he  had  not  chosen, 
and  which  he  found  so  irksome,  had  deepened  his 
scepticism.  Yet,  was  it  possible  that  a  credulous 
acceptance  of  a  myth  had  given  the  man,  Brebeuf, 
the  streng'th  to  overcome  and  transform  his  nature? 


104    XTbe  IRomance  of  a  Jesuit  ADisston 


He  was  brave;  with  faith,  or  wifhout,  he  would 
have  died  as  a  hero.  But  it  was  the  inspiring  faith 
within  him  that  enabled  him  to  live  as  a  saint.  Leon 
groaned  aloud  when  he  remembered  their  last  part- 
ing. Anywhere,  under  any  circumstances,  it  would 
have  been  hard  to  lose  such  a  friend;  but,  in  the 
lonely  wilderness,  where  friends  were  few,  where 
none  understood  him,  where  some  whom  he  might 
have  made  his  friends  had  come  to  mistrust  him,  his 
life  seemed  void  and  desolate  indeed. 

The  missionaries  of  St.  Jean — Charles  Garnier 
and  Noel  Chabanel — men  who,  like  the  other  Hu- 
ron missionaries,  had  been  chosen  from  the  purest 
of  their  order — had  treated  him  with  kindness.  But 
he  believed  that  information  of  the  reasons  why  he 
had  been  transferred  had  been  sent  to  them,  and  he 
was  sensitive  of  criticism.  Garreau  and  Grelon  at 
St.  Matthias  had  apparently  little  confidence  in 
him.  Without  companionship,  with  little  faith, 
and  full  of  distaste  for  his  work,  the  dreariness  of 
his  life  oppressed  him  so  that  at  times  it  seemed 
unbearable.  And  into  that  dreariness  would  come 
the  vision  of  the  lovely  girl,  of  the  happiness  that 
might  have  been;  and  he  could  not  shut  it  out. 
He  had  no  interest  in  the  world  without;  he 
dreaded  to  turn  to  that  within  him.  As  in  duty 
bound,  he  recited  prayers  and  spiritual  exercises 
from  the  breviary — they  were  naught  to  him  but 
empty  words.    Work  was  his  sole  refuge,  and  he 


< 


XTbe  Searcb  tor  tbe  Dea^ 


105 


worked  with  the  energy  of  despair.  Even  Gamier 
remonstrated  with  him  against  exhausting  his 
strength. 

Gamier  was  devoted  to  the  mission.  He  was 
the  favorite  child  of  wealthy  and  noble  parents,  and 
had  been  nursed  in  ease  and  luxury.  Yet,  though 
his  constitution  was  delicate,  he  contented  himself 
v/ith  wretched  fare,  living  in  times  of  famine  on 
roots  and  acorns.  When  the  country  was  infested 
by  the  enemy  he  would  walk  thirty  or  forty  miles 
in  midsummer  to  baptize  some  dying  Indian.  And 
he  had  often  passed  the  night  alone  in  the  forest 
in  the  depth  of  winter  when  on  some  similar  errand. 
He  was  anxious  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  Iro- 
quois, that  he  might  preach  the  Faith  to  them  even 
out  of  the  midst  of  the  fire. 

Yet  Gamier  sent  a  communication  to  the  Su- 
perior that  De  Charolais  was  undermining  his 
strength  by  exhausting  labors;  that  his  zeal  led 
him  to  overrate  his  youthful  endurance;  that  he 
had  grown  pale  and  emaciated,  and  should  be  re- 
strained from  such  reckless  drafts  on  his  consti- 
tution. 

But  the  Superior  did  not  desire  to  restrain  him. 
He  believed  that  a  passion  that  expressed  itself  by 
such  abnormal  activity  would  soon  wear  itself  out, 
that  I.eon  would  cease  to  trouble  himself  about  the 
girl,  and  would  settle  down  to  orderly  devotion  to 
his  work. 


XIII 

Bnxtous  Utmes 

Within  two  weeks  from  the  destruction  of  St. 
Ignace  and  St.  Louis,  fifteen  Huron  towns  were 
abandoned,  and  the  greater  number  burned  lest 
they  give  shelter  to  the  Iroquois.  The  Hurons  had 
been  seized  by  despair;  they  seemed  incapable  of 
defence;  their  one  desire  was  for  flight.  They  had 
no  thought  of  provision  for  the  future;  they  left 
their  fields  untilled,  and  roamed  the  wilderness  half 
starved;  for  there  had  been  a  poor  harvest  in  the 
previous  year.  Some  sought  refuge  on  the  rocky 
islands  of  the  bay;  others  had  gone  to  the  Tobacco 
Nation ;  a  few  wandered  as  far  as  the  Neutrals  on 
the  north  shore  of  Lake  Erie. 

The  Fathers  had  hoped  that  their  mission  would 
be  the  beginning  of  a  glorious  work,  that  the  sav- 
age tribes  would  become  sons  of  the  Church,  and 
their  land,  by  peaceful  conquest,  the  heritage  of 
France.  But  now  the  Hurons,  dispersed  and 
broken,  had  ceased  to  exist  as  a  nation;  the  chron- 
icles thereafter  told  only  of  a  vanishing  people. 

All  the  fortified  towns  between  Sainte  Marie  and 

the  Iroquois  country  had  been  destroyed,  some  by 

io6 


Bnxfoud  XLimcs 


107 


the  enemy,  some  by  tlieir  own  people;  that  fort 
stood  alone.  The  Jesuits  took  counsel,  and  re- 
solved to  abandon  the  beloved  place.  The  people 
were  scattered,  the  neig^hboring  missions  were  in 
ruins;  to  remain  would  be  folly;  they  were  ready 
for  martyrdom,  if  necessary;  but  they  had  no  right 
to  court  it  and  senselessly  expose  hfe  that  might 
have  fields  of  usefulness  elsewhere.  For  a  time  they 
felt  almost  crushed  by  the  disappointment;  but 
they  rallied. 

Father  Ragueneau  wrote:  "  Since  the  birth  of 
Christianity  the  Faith  has  nowhere  been  planted 
except  in  the  midst  of  suffering  and  crosses.  Thus 
this  desolation  consoles  us;  and  in  the  midst  of 
persecution,  in  the  extremity  of  the  evils  which 
assail  us,  and  the  greater  evils  which  threaten  us, 
we  are  all  filled  with  joy:  for  our  hearts  tell  us  that 
God  has  never  had  a  more  tender  love  for  us  than 
now." 

Several  priests  followed  the  scattered  Hurons. 
One  shared  the  rovings  of  his  half-starved  converts 
through  the  thickets  and  mountains.  Another, 
embarking  in  a  canoe,  sought  his  despairing  people 
among  the  rocks  and  islands  of  Lake  Huron  north- 
ward. The  remaining  priests,  after  taking  counsel 
at  Sainte  Marie,  determined  to  establish  a  new  mis- 
sion on  the  Grand  Manitoulin  Island,  to  which  the 
Hurons  gave  the  name  Ekaentoton.  It  would 
bring  them  nearer  the  French  settlements  by  the 


io8    trbe  IRomancc  of  a  Bcmit  ffblssion 


route  of  the  Ottawa,  and  to  Algonquin  trilDes  along 
the  borders  of  the  lake.  The  soil  was  productive 
and  the  fishing  good. 

But  after  they  had  resolved  to  transfer  their 
mission  a  number  of  Huron  chiefs  arrived  and 
begged  for  an  interview.  They  informed  the  mis- 
sionaries that  many  of  their  people  had  determined 
to  reunite  and  form  a  settlement  on  the  Island  of 
Ahoendoe,  called  by  the  Jesuits  Isle  St.  Joseph. 
They  urged  the  Jesuits  to  join  them,  and  gave  the 
Superior  ten  collars  of  wampum,  saying  that  these 
were  the  voices  of  their  wives  and  children.  After 
a  conference  of  three  hours  the  Jesuits  agreed  to 
abandon  their  plan  of  a  settlement  on  the  Mani- 
toulin  Island  and  to  join  the  Hurons  at  Ahoendoe. 

Notwithstanding  the  anxiety  and  uncertainty, 
daily  duties  in  the  palisades  were  conducted  in  an 
orderly  way.  Nialona  and  Dorothy  taught  the 
children  and  helped  the  women  in  the  care  of  the 
lodges  as  if  they  were  to  remain  permanently  in 
their  homes.  The  Fathers  knew  too  well  the  value 
of  discipline  and  regularity  to  permit  any  marked 
relaxation  on  account  of  troublous  times.  A  large 
number  of  Hurons  from  the  deserted  villages  had 
come  to  the  fort  for  shelter,  and  there  was  much 
work  for  all  hands  to  do. 

When  the  ice  'had  gone  from  the  lakes  and  river, 
the  young  people  v/ere  allowed  to  paddle  their  ca- 
noes for  a  short  distance,  if  the  scouts  reported  that 


i-j' 


> 


*♦ 


Hniioud  UimcB 


109 


no  Iroquois  had  been  seen  lurking  in  the  nei^h- 
borhood.  But  they  never  ventured  far,  and  the 
groups  kept  together.  They  were  allowed  to  ram- 
ble in  the  neighboring  woods,  and  gather  wild 
flowers  for  the  decoration  of  the  church  and  hos- 
pital. ^ 

Nialona  grieved  at  the  prospect  of  leaving  Sainte 
Mane  where  she  had  spent  happy  days.  But 
Dorothy  to  whom  the  place  was  so  bitterly  associ- 
ated with  tragedy  and  sorrow,  believed  that  the 
change  could,  at  least,  bring  nothing  worse 

In  one  respect,  the  agitation  had  been  the  means 
of  a  respite  to  her.    Either  because  they  judged  it 
to  be  the  wiser  course,  or  because  their  attention 
was  turned  to  afifairs  of  more  immediate  impor- 
tance  the  Fathers  had  ceased  to  ask  any  questions 
regarding  her  past,  and  appeared  content  for  the 
present  to  leave  her  undisturbed  in  her  heretical 
views.    They  said  among  themselves  that  her  con- 
duct, her  obedience  to  their  >vishes,  were  exem- 
plary; and  they  were  unable  at  the  time  to  form 
any  tenable  plans  for  her  future. 


XIV 

f  n  peril  in  tbe  IRuins 

On  a  sunny  afternoon  Dorothy  and  Washaka  set 
out  in  their  canoe.  They  meant  to  paddle  but  a 
short  distance;  but  Washaka  was  venturesome,  and 
Dorothy's  heart  was  Hghter  than  usual;  so  they 
went  on  heedlessly,  until  Dorothy  suddenly  ex- 
claimed, in  her  broken  French,  "  Washaka,  what 
shore  is  this?  We  have  come  far.  We  must  re- 
turn." 

Washaka  laughed.  "  We  go  on  shore,  walk  but 
a  Httle  way,  and  find  St.  Ignace.  What  say  you? 
My  desire  is  to  behold  it.  I  make  fast  the  canoe 
by  yonder  tree.  The  walk  is  not  long.  Your 
strength  is  more  with  you  of  late.  If  you  weary, 
lean  on  me." 

Dorothy  shuddered.    She  did  not  wish  to  see  the 

place  of  horrors.     But  Washaka  was  determined. 

*'  Come;  if  you  come  not,  I  leave  you  here,  and  go 

alone.    I  fear  nothing.    Do  you  say  you  return  with 

the  canoe?    What  of  that?    I  walk.    That  walk,  a 

few  miles,  what  is  it?     But  you,  you  fear  to  be 

alone.    You  cannot  use  the  paddle  to  return  so  far. 

no 


^  ' 
I 


i, 


In  Peru  In  tbc  IRuins 


III 


I 


Your  arm  has  not  the  strength.    Come  with  me. 
What  fear  you?" 

Dorothy  hesitated,  and  Washaka,  laughing 
scornfully,  sprang  ashore,  almost  upsetting  the 
light  canoe.  She  began  to  run  up  the  bank.  Wa- 
shaka was  right;  Dorothy  was  afraid  to  be  left 
alone.  "  Washaka,  Washaka,"  she  cried,  "  come 
tome.    I  go  with  you." 

Washaka  returned,  caught  the  canoe,  and  drew 
it  ashore. 

The  two  set  out  together;  but  long  before  they 
reached  the  ruins  Dorothy  was  very  weary.  Her 
steps  lagged,  and  Washaka  had  httle  patience  with 
weakness.  The  Huron  girl  was  swift  and  strong; 
she  had  often  walked  from  one  mission  to  another,' 
but  to  drag  her  companion,  who  appeared  quite 
exhausted,  back  to  the  canoe  would  be  no  easy  mat- 
ter. Besides,  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  see  the 
ruins. 

When  they  at  last  arrived  in  sight  of  the  charred 
dwellings,  Dorothy  begged  to  be  allowed  to  remain 
outside  of  the  enclosure,  which  was  blackened  and 
broken. 

But  Washaka  insisted  that  she  would  not  return 
that  way.  She  would  walk  through  the  ruined 
village,  and  take  a  shorter  cut  to  the  water. 

So  Dorothy  followed,  in  helpless  submission. 
The  sights  she  saw  made  her  sick  with  horror.  But 
Washaka  shrugged  her  shoulders. 


112     Ube  IRomancc  ot  a  Jesuit  /l>iddion 

"  What  matters  it  now?  They  were  baptized, 
all  of  them.  Do  not  the  priests  tell  us  that  they 
who  have  been  baptized  may  pass  through  the  fires 
of  the  enemy  and  be  happy  and  safe  forevermore?  '* 

Washaka  lingered,  examining  the  ruins,  the 
charred  remains  of  some  who  had  been  her  friends, 
with  a  curiosity  and  an  absence  of  sensitiveness  that 
Dorothy  could  not  comprehend,  though  she  had 
seen  many  exhibitions  of  stolidity  on  the  part  of  the 
Huron  women.  She  tried  to  avoid  the  revolting 
scenes  as  far  as  possible. 

When  Washaka  was  ready  to  go  the  sun  had 
dropped  behind  the  pines,  and  though  Dorothy 
had  rested  on  a  log,  she  felt  that  it  would  be  almost 
impossible  for  her  to  walk  to  the  river. 

Washaka  was  alarmed  when  she  realized  that 
darkness  would  soon  come  on.  Their  absence 
would  be  noticed,  and  they  would  surely  be  repri- 
manded on  their  return.  "  Come,"  she  said,  pulling 
on  Dorothy's  arm,  "  you  can  walk  if  you  will.  You 
must  haste,  or  I  leave  you  alone." 

Dorothy  was  so  anxious  that  she  did  not  attempt 
to  argue  with  her  unreasonable  companion,  but  did 
her  best  to  keep  pace  with  her  quick  steps.  But 
the  effort  was  useless.    She  was  too  weak. 

"  I  cannot,  I  cannot,  Washaka,"  she  said,  stop- 
ping abruptly,  and  sinking  wearily  to  the  ground. 
"  My  head  is  dizzy.  My  heart  beats  fast.  I  cannot 
breathe.    I  must,  I  must,  rest." 


> 


f  n  peril  in  tbe  IRuina 


"3 


i 


I 


"  Rest,  then,"  said  Washaka,  angrily;  "  rest  all 
night  if  you  will,  but  I  go  on;  and  the  Iroquois 
may  come  and  carry  you  away  if  they  yet  linger 
near." 

She  ran  ofif,  as  she  had  run  up  the  bank;  but 
Dorothy  could  not  follow.  She  clasped  her  arms 
round  a  slender  tree  and  leaned  her  swimming  head 
against  it.  In  a  brief  unconsciousness  she  forgot 
her  fears. 

But  Washaka  knew  that  she  dare  not  return  to 
the  palisades  without  her  companion.  She  re- 
turned, and  found  that  Dorothy  had  slipped  from 
the  log  and  was  lying  on  the  ground  in  a  half  famt- 
ing  condition;  she  realized  at  last  that  the  white 
stranger  was  physically  incapable  of  further  effort. 

They  had  had  nothing  to  eat  since  noon;  per- 
haps she  could  find  some  food  in  the  ruins.  She 
stooped  over  the  fainting  girl.  "  Dorothy,  rouse," 
she  cried.  "  I  leave  you  but  a  few  moments,  and 
seek  bread  for  you  to  eat.    Fear  not ;  I  will  return." 

She  ran  quickly  to  St.  Ignace,  and  peered  about 
in  the  gathering  darkness.  Presently  she  saw  a 
bag  on  the  ground.  It  had  probably  been  dropped 
by  one  of  the  Iroquois  in  the  retreat.  It  contained 
some  dried  venison  and  a  few  cakes  of  pounded 
maize.  It  was  not  very  appetizing,  and  Dorothy 
was  fastidious;  but  she  would  eat  to  gain  strength. 
After  further  search,  she  found  an  earthen  vessel, 
which  she  filled  with  water  from  a  spring.    She  had 


1 14    Ubc  l^omance  ot  a  3eduit  /iMssion 


hoped  to  discover  a  rug  or  blanket,  in  which  she 
might  wrap  her  shivering  companion,  for  the  spring 
night  was  cold;  but  she  could  see  nothing  of  the 
kind.  Dorothy  was  warmly  clad,  but  she  appeared 
to  be  chilled. 

When  she  returned,  Dorothy  was  still  lying  on 
the  ground. 

"  Drink,  Dorothy,  drink,"  she  said,  stooping 
over  her. 

As  Dorothy  did  not  move,  she  sat  down  beside 
her,  raised  her  head  and  held  the  water  to  her  lips. 

Dorothy  drank  a  little,  and  revived  so  that  she 
sat  up  wearily. 

Washaka  propped  her  against  the  log,  and  gave 
her  a  bit  of  venison  and  a  hard  maize  cake.  Had 
Dorothy  seen  the  dirty  bag,  perhaps  she  would 
have  refused  it;  she  tried  to  eat  it,  but  it  was  too 
dry  and  hard.  Then  Washaka  soaked  a  cake  in 
water,  and  put  it  into  her  mouth,  bit  by  bit. 

After  eating,  she  felt  better,  and  said  she  would 
try  to  walk. 

They  rose  and  went  a  few  yards,  when  they  heard 
a  crackling  of  branches  at  some  distance  behind 
them.  Washaka  put  her  arm  round  Dorothy  and 
peered  back.  She  saw  a  dark  figure  that  stooped 
when  she  turned.  Had  it  been  a  friend  from  the 
fort,  he  would  have  hastened  on  or  called  to  her. 
Her  quick  instinct  told  her  it  was  an  enemy.  Per- 
haps Iroquois  spies  were  still  in  the  neighborhood. 


4^ 


i 


f  n  peril  in  tbe  IRuins 


115 


They  were  not  far  from  the  deep  ravine  near  St. 
Ignace.  The  Huron  girl  knew  the  place  well.  She 
had  lived  for  a  time  at  St.  Ignace,  and  she  and  her 
friends  had  played  their  Indian  form  of  the  game 
of  hide  and  seek.  She  could  find  a  hiding-place  in 
the  dark  where  perhaps  even  the  keenest  Iro- 
quois could  not  follow. 

It  went  through  her  mind  in  a  flash.  "  Dorothy," 
she  whispered  hoarsely;  "  we  must  run,  run.  It  is 
for  our  lives." 

She  put  her  arm  around  Dorothy's  waist  again, 
and  half  dragged  her.  But  she  felt  they  were  not 
running  fast  enough.  She  heard  the  footsteps  be- 
hind them.  They  might  make  more  speed  if  they 
were  separated.  "  Dorothy,"  she  gasped,  "  I  must 
let  go.  You  hinder  me.  Keep  close  to  me.  Run 
for  your  life.    We  shall  escape." 

Fear  lent  Dorothy  strength,  and  she  followed 
her  companion  swiftly  down  the  steep  ravine;  too 
swiftly,  for  she  tripped  and  fell,  and  rolled  almost 
to  the  bottom.  But  ^he  picked  herself  up  and, 
unmindful  of  bruises,  pressed  on. 

Washaka  caught  her  hand,  and  pulled  her, 
"  Come,  there  is  a  place  to  hide,  a  hollow  tree. 
There  is  room  for  you  alone.  Do  not  move ;  make 
not  a  sound.  For  myself,  I  find  another  place. 
Wait  where  I  leave  you  till  I  come  for  you.  If  you 
stir,  you  are  lost." 

Dorothy  obeyed.    The  tree  was  one  of  a  group. 


4\ 


v'l 


II 


1 16    zbc  IRomance  ot  a  Jesuit  /iMssfon 

and  if  Washaka  had  not  known  it  well  she  could  not 
have  found  it  in  the  darkness.  There  was  no  sound 
from  their  pursuer.  Perhaps  he  had  feared  to  vent- 
ure down  the  ravine.  For  aught  he  knew,  other 
Hurons  might  be  there. 

Washaka  crawled  into  a  hollow  beneath  some 
logs.  Dorothy  crouched;  she  had  not  strength  to 
stand  upright;  the  space  was  small,  and  she  was 
seized  with  dread  lest  she  should  be  pinned  there. 
After  awhile  she  heard  voices  and  footsteps.  Per- 
haps the  man  had  gone  back  for  his  friends.  The 
voices  were  low;  but  when  two  men  passed  close 
beside  the  group  of  trees  where  she  was  concealed, 
she  knew  by  their  speech  that  they  were  Indians, 
but  not  Hurons.  She  feared  the  beating  of  her 
heart,  her  breathing,  might  betray  her;  but  her 
hiding-place  escaped  their  vigilance,  and  they  went 
on.  After  awhile  they  returned.  This  time  they 
had  a  light,  a  smoking  torch  of  woou.  Dorothy 
was  cold  with  dread.  She  knew  too  well  of  the  keen 
sight,  the  quick  perception,  of  these  savages.  The 
ravine  was  rocky  here;  they  might  not  see  foot- 
prints; but  they  would  surely  notice  that  the 
branches  had  been  moved.  She  could  see  the  light 
of  the  torch  on  their  dark,  eager  faces;  but  the 
trunks  of  the  other  trees  concealed  her.  The  men 
passed  on,  and  apparently  went  to  search  in  other 
directions. 

Washaka  did  not  come  to  her.    The  Huron  girl 


In  peril  in  tbe  l^uins 


II 


feared  that  silence  was  intended  to  deceive  them, 
and  that  the  men  might  be  watching  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. 

When  an  hour  had  passed  without  a  sound  from 
their  pursuers,  she  crept  from  her  hiding-place  and 
sought  Dorothy.  She  called  her  softly,  but  heard 
no  answer.  Then  she  forced  her  way  in  between 
the  thickly  growing  trees — she  had  wondered  in 
other  days  how  they  had  found  nurture  in  that  in- 
hospitable ground — and  looked  into  the  hollow; 
but  Dorothy  was  not  there. 

Was  it  possible  that  she  had  been  discovered 
and  carried  away  without  a  sound? 

"  Dorothy,  Dorothy,"  she  cried,  forgetting  cau- 
tion in  her  alarm. 

She  was  relieved  by  hearing  Dorothy's  voice,  and 
presently  the  girl  crawled  from  beneath  a  heap  of 
brushwood. 

"  I  had  to  move,  Washaka,"  she  explained. 
"  There  seemed  no  air  to  breathe.  I  felt  I  was 
buried  alive.  It  was  terrible.  I  think  had  I  stayed 
there,  I  should  have  died.  When  the  men  had 
gone,  when  all  was  quiet,  I  crept  out." 

Washaka  did  not  scold,  as  Dorothy  had  expected 
she  would.  "  We  must  haste,"  she  said.  "  They 
went  to  the  south.  It  may  be  we  can  reach  the 
river,  and  find  our  canoe." 

They  went  through  the  ravine  to  the  north  for 
some  distance,  moving  as  swiftly  as  they  could,  and 


1 1 8    ube  IRomancc  of  a  3c0ult  /Dfasion 


lili 


'.II 

•Vi 


listening  keenly;   but  no  one  appeared  to  be  in 
pursuit. 

When  they  left  the  ravine,  they  had  not  far  to 
go  to  find  the  river,  and  presently,  to  their  great 
joy,  they  saw  their  canoe,  fastened  to  the  overhang- 
ing tree,  as  they  had  left  it. 

It  was  a  peaceful  night.  The  wind  sighed  gently 
through  the  forest,  and  the  stars  shone  in  a  clear 
sky. 

They  began  to  be  more  hopeful.  Washaka  pad- 
dled swiftly,  and  Dorothy  rested. 

They  wondered  why  they  met  no  one  of  their 
own  people.  Surely  their  absence  had  been  dis- 
covered, and  men  were  in  search  for  them. 


XV 

When  they  left  the  river,  they  were  nearer  the 
fort  than  the  paHsades.  As  they  were  sure  their 
absence  must  have  been  reported  to  the  Fathers 
and  that  they  could  not  in  any  case  escape  censure' 
they  determined  to  go  boldly  to  the  gate  and  an- 
nounce their  return. 

Washaka  judged  from  the  position  of  the  stars 
that  It  was  about  midnight;  but,  even  for  that 
hour,  the  place  was  strangely  dark  and  silent.  A 
horror  of  come  calamity  seized  them.  Yet  had 
there  been  a  battle  with  the  Iroquois,  there  would 
have  been  some  trace  of  it  in  the  neighborhood. 
Ihe  only  signs  of  fight  they  had  seen  were  those 
left  from  the  late  skirmishes,  with  which  Washaka 
had  quickly  become  familiarized. 
^^  "  Let  us  go  on  to  the  palisades,"  said  Washaka. 

Strange  it  seems,  yet  something  has  happened 
so  they  have  not  missed  us." 

They  kept  close  to  the  walls  till  they  reached  a 
corner  where  they  found  a  path  to  the  neighboring 
enclosure.    They  walked  quickly  across  the  open 

119 


11^ 


I  \ 


!<' 


1 20    ubc  IRomancc  of  a  Jesuit  /iDfsBlon 

space,  seeing  no  one,  hearing  nothing,  hoping  and 
dreading. 

To  their  surprise,  the  gate  stood  open! 

The  place  appeared  to  be  deserted.  There  was 
not  a  hght  in  the  hospital  windows;  there  was  no 
smoke  from  any  chimney.  Washaka  went  to  the 
lodge  that  was  usually  occupied  by  several  families. 
The  door  was  ajar;  the  lodge  was  empty. 

"  O,  Washaka,  what  has  happened? "  asked 
Dorothy. 

"  What  know  I?  "  replied  Washaka.  "  We  look, 
may  be  we  find." 

But  every  lodge  that  they  passed  appeared 
equally  desolate.  Presently  they  arrived  at  Kish- 
ik's  house.  The  doors  and  windows  were  barred; 
there  was  not  a  glimmer  of  lamp  or  fire  within. 
They  knocked  loudly;  but  there  was  no  answer. 

Washaka  pointed  to  the  open  door  of  a  neigh- 
boring lodge.  "  Come,"  she  said,  "  we  make  the 
door  fast,  we  find  some  blankets,  we  rest  till  morn- 
mg. 

They  did  not  know  what  danger  lurked  near. 
But  Dorothy  was  so  weary  that  she  was  apathetic, 
and  she  followed  the  Indian  girl. 

They  groped  along  the  walls,  and  when  their 
eyes  became  accustomed  to  the  darkness,  they  saw 
a  heap  in  the  corner,  which  they  supposed  to  be 
some  fur  rugs. 

Had  Dorothy  been  less  exhausted,  she  would  not 


[\ 


JSarred  ^ut 


121 


have  dared  to  creep  about  in  the  darkness  in  the 
face  of  the  unaccountable  desertion  of  the  lodges 
But  she  held  Washaka's  hand,  and  went  on. 

Washaka  stooped  to  feel  the  dark  heap,  but 
started  back  in  affright.  She  had  placed  her  hand 
on  a  man's  face.  Terrified  though  she  was,  she  did 
not  scream.  Without  a  word,  she  clutched  Dor- 
othy's hand  and  pulled  her  out. 

Dorothy  understood  the  movement,  and  knew 
well  that  Washaka's  action  betokened  danger. 

Washaka  divined  that  the  man  had  not  been 
asleep.  He  had  almost  held  his  breath  till  their 
approach.    His  stillness  had  a  purpose. 

Before  they  reached  the  door,  he  had  risen  and 
was  following  them. 

Fast  as  their  feet  could  fly  they  went  over  the 
ground  till  they  reached  the  gate.  He  seemed  be- 
wildered, and  they  gained  on  him. 

When  they  arrived  at  the  gate,  they  were  several 
yards  in  advance. 

"Quick,  Dorothy!"  cried  Washaka,  breath- 
lessly, "  we  will  bar  it." 

With  all  their  strength  they  pushed  it  in,  and 
Washaka  fastened  the  outer  bolt.  It  had  been  ar- 
ranged so  it  could  be  fastened  from  without  as  well 
as  from  within.  The  outer  bolt  was  a  secret  device, 
not  readily  discoverable  by  strangers.  In  times  of 
danger  a  guard  from  the  fort  fastened  it  after  the 
mhabitants  had  retired. 


ll 


kt: 


3ESSE 


122   tlbe  IRomancc  of  a  Jesuit  /iDtssion 

The  man  gave  a  howl  of  rage,  and  the  girls  sped 
on  to  the  fort.  But  presently  they  heard  a  strange, 
blood-curdling  laugh.  They  turned,  and  saw  their 
pursuer  not  many  yards  behind  them.  They  had 
fastened  the  gate  securely,  and  the  palisade  wall 
was  high.  But  he  had  evidently  found  some  way 
to  climb  it,  or  had  wedged  himself  through  some 
opening  of  which  they  were  not  aware. 

In  their  hurried  glance,  they  saw  a  wild-looking 
creature,  almost  naked,  his  tangled  black  hair  cov- 
ering him  to  the  waist.  He  was  gesticulating 
wildly,  and  making  unintelligible  sounds.  As  they 
ran,  the  girls  began  to  shout  and  shriek  in  appeal 
to  the  inmates  of  the  fort. 

"  Let  us  in,  let  us  in.  Open  to  us,  open,  open. 
It  is  Dorothy!    It  is  Washaka!  " 

But  the  man  gained  on  them. 

"  Nialona!  Kishik!  O,  Father,  Father,  open  to 
us!    Let  us  in!" 

Dorothy's  abundant  red-gold  hair  had  escaped 
from  its  combs,  and  was  floating  behind  her  as  she 
ran.  They  had  just  reached  the  gate,  when  the 
savage  made  a  grasp  for  the  hair.  Dorothy  felt  a 
sharp  pain  at  the  roots.  She  believed  he  meant  to 
tear  it  out,  and  half  turned  to  him,  holding  up  her 
hands  imploringly. 

But  he  was  laughing  and  jabbering;  he  let  the 
golden  tress  fall  over  his  arm,  and  patted  it  with 
one  hand;  even  by  night  he  could  see  that  it  was 
fair. 


3Barre^  Ont 


123 


The  gate  swung  back.  The  girls  and  their  pur- 
suer had  been  seen  from  the  watch-tower. 

A  crowd  of  men  had  been  roused  by  the  cries, 
and  had  rushed  to  the  gate.  Dorothy  fell  almost 
fainting  at  Father  Ragueneau's  feet,  and  Washaka 
was  so  spent  that  but  for  the  strong  arm  of  a  trader 
she  would  have  fallen.  The  wild  creature  had 
rushed  in  after  them,  and  the  sword  of  a  soldier  was 
lifted  to  strike,  when  the  blow  was  arrested  by 
Father  Bressani's  hand. 

"  Harm  not  the  man,"  he  commanded.  "  He  is 
but  a  poor,  mad  creature.  Some  trouble  has  crazed 
his  brain." 

The  wild  eyes  looked  from  one  to  another. 

"  Victor  Caradeuc  and  Jules  Venette,"  said  the 
Superior,  in  a  low  voice,  "  lead  him  away;  watch 
and  guard  him,  lest  he  harm  anything;  but  use  no 
violence." 

The  creature  fought  and  struggled  when  they 
laid  hands  on  him,  and  howled  so  dismally  that,  un- 
mindful of  the  Superior's  orders,  his  guards  opened 
the  gate,  and  thrust  him  out,  when  he  at  once 
darted  across  the  clearing. 

One  of  the  Hurons  said  he  was  an  insane  man 
who  had  wandered  about  the  country  for  years. 
No  one  knew  how  he  lived,  but  he  was  harmless. 
The  Fathers  knew  that  among  the  Indians  insanity 
is  supposed  to  be  endowed  with  supernatural  pow- 
ers; so  tliis  man,  who  was  looked  upon  as  an  ol^i, 


i 


PT" 


mmmssm 


II  WTiiriirs: 


ssssa 


1 24   XTbe  IRomance  of  a  ^eduit  /l>i0dion 

had  not  been  molested  by  any  tribe.  The  Hurons 
believed  he  would  bring  good  luck  to  the  fort,  and 
two  ran  after  him  to  try  to  persuade  him  to  return. 
But  he  fled  swiftly;  he  had  taken  fright  when  the 
Frenchmen  seized  him.  His  pursuers  returned, 
brought  out  some  provisions  from  a  lodge  in  the 
fort,  and  laid  them  on  the  ground  outside  the  walls, 
motioning  to  the  madman  that  he  might  eat  and 
no  one  would  harm  him. 

One  of  the  priests  had  lifted  Dorothy  from  the 
ground,  and  was  leading  her  toward  the  lodge 
where  Kishik  and  Nialona  were,  when  Raoul 
Hauteroche  approached. 

"  Mademoiselle  Dorothee  is  too  ill  to  walk. 
Father,"  he  said;  "  with  your  permission,  I  will 
carry  her." 

"  You  have  a  strong  arm,  Raoul,"  replied  the 
priest. 

Hauteroche  chose  to  look  on  this  as  a  permis- 
sion, and  lifted  Dorothy  in  his  arms.  She  was  so 
weak  that  she  made  no  resistance;  and  her  head 
fell  on  his  shoulder. 

Washaka  followed  closely,  bitterly  jealous  and 
angry.  Raoul  had  taken  advantage  of  every  op- 
portunity to  pay  her  attention,  and  she  admired 
the  handsome  and  bold  young  trader. 

The  priest  had  turned  back  for  a  moment,  and 
Raoul  bent  his  head  and  laid  his  bearded  cheek 
against  Dorothy's.    She  shuddered  and  drew  away. 


I 


jBarreb  ^ut 


125 


"  How  dare  you?  »  she  said.    "  I  will  walk.    Take 
your  arms  from  me.    Put  me  on  the  ground." 

Nay,  nay,"  he  said,  softly.  "  I  meant  no  harm. 
Your  breathing  was  so  low  I  feared  you  had 
swooned  again.    I  did  but  stoop  to  see." 

Dorothy  knew  that  he  hed.  But  she  was  silent, 
and  endured  the  clasp  of  his  arms  till  she  reached 
the  lodge.  She  did  not  want  to  do  anything  to 
excite  Washaka's  jealous  suspicions. 

When  Washaka  knocked,  Nialona  opened  the 
door.  She  had  been  lying  down,  but  had  not  un- 
dressed, Dorothy  had  dreaded  meeting  her.  Both 
of  the  girls  knew  she  would  reproach  them.  But 
the  Superior  and  Father  Bressani  had  followed 
closely  to  hear  their  story,  and  Victor  Caradeuc  was 
at  hand,  pleased  to  find  excuse  to  see  Nialona;  so 
she  cried  only,  "  What  has  happened?  O,  the 'ter- 
rible hours  we  have  passed,  not  knowing  where  you 
were! " 

"  Many  are  in  search  of  you,"  said  the  Superior, 
"  great  though  the  peril  is,  for  the  Iroquois  are 
near." 

Washaka  fold  her  story  briefly,  omitting  all 
reference  to  her  part  in  insisting  that  Dorothy 
should  go  with  her;  and  Dorothy  was  silent. 

When  the  girls  had  left  the  palisades,  they  had 
said  they  were  going  to  the  woods  on  the  west  to 
gather  flowers,  and  the  search  had  been  made  in 
that  direction.     Late  in  the  afternoon,  alarming 


i|BI"    II  I'f  i« 


:c9 


126  zbc  IRomance  ot  a  Jesuit  /iDidsion 

reports  of  the  neighborhood  of  a  body  of  Iroquois 
had  led  the  Fathers  to  order  the  inhabitants  of  the 
paHsades  to  take  refuge  in  the  fort.  Nialona  had 
been  anxious  about  Dorothy's  long  absence,  but 
in  the  hurry  of  moving  Kishik  and  the  household 
goods  to  Sainte  Marie  she  had  neglected  to  men- 
tion it.  Then  she  and  some  of  the  boys  had  begun 
to  search  in  the  neighborhood;  but  every  one  had 
been  ordered  to  return  to  the  fort,  and  remain 
there. 

By  that  time  it  was  dusk,  and  she  sent  word  to 
the  Superior.  Rene  le  Breton  and  a  number  of 
men  set  out  at  once,  but  found  no  trace  of  the 
wanderers.  They  had  returned  to  the  fort  several 
times  to  inquire  if  any  tidings  had  arrived,  and  had 
then  set  forth  again.  They  had  not  been  seen  in 
the  neighborhood  for  more  than  an  hour,  and  their 
friends  had  become  anxious,  fearing  they  might 
have  fallen  into  some  Iroquois  trap.  The  inmates 
of  the  fort  had  kept  very  quiet,  witli  a  desire  to 
deceive  the  Iroquois  into  a  belief  that  no  special 
watch  had  been  set. 

"  You  have  done  very  wrong,"  said  the  Superior, 
addressing  his  remarks  to  Dorothy.  "  You  have 
caused  us  terrible  anxiety,  and  risked  the  lives  of 
some  of  our  bravest  men,  for  whom  we  are  now  in 
grave  fear.  But  you  are  ill  and  weary.  Rest  now 
if  you  can,  and  to-morrow  we  will  talk  of  your  dis- 
obedience." 


4 


4 


V 


JSarred  0\xt 


127 


1 1 


■ 


Dorothy  held  up  her  hands  imploringly,  and  then 
broke  into  violent  sobbing. 

Bressani  looked  pained.  "Ah,  you  are  very 
young  yet,  and  the  young  will  be  thoughtless.  You 
will  remember  the  consequences  of  your  folly,  and 
will  not  give  us  such  trouble  again.  Do  not  weep 
so,  child.  The  good  Father  is  not  angry.  He 
meant  only  to  warn  you." 

"  But  Monsieur  le  Breton  and  the  men  with  him 
may  come  to  harm." 

"  They  cannot  be  harmed  unless  the  good  God 
permits  it,"  replied  Bressani.  "  Pray  for  them,  my 
child,  as  we  have  all  prayed,  that  it  be  His  holy 
will  to  bring  them  back  in  safety." 

Hauteroche  scowled  darkly.  Dorothy's  anxiety 
for  Rene  le  Breton  was  not  agreeable  to  him. 

Presently  a  shout  was  heard.  The  priests  and 
Hauteroche  hastened  from  the  lodge,  and  the 
others  waited  anxiously  for  news.  Nialona  went 
to  the  door  and  listened.  She  thought  the  search- 
ers had  returned. 

"  Washaka  will  remain  in  this  lodge  to-night," 
she  said,  coldly.  "  Dorothy,  go  to  your  bed.  We 
will  follow  soon.  You  have  already  kept  us  waiting 
long." 

Dorothy  was  willing  to  obey,  and  be  out  of  reach 
of  Nialona's  reproaches.  But  presently  there  was 
a  knock  at  the  door,  and  Bressani  came  in. 

"  Be  comforted,  my  child,"  he  said,  kindly,  to 


»  » 


■iHMilii     l'r'i.ii;.'rr1iilPfW 


smam 


128    zbc  IRomance  ot  a  Jesuit  /Disaion 


i!i 


Dorothy,  who  had  just  risen  and  prepared  to  follow 
Nialona's  instructions.  "  Our  friends  are  safe. 
Fret  no  more;  but  sleep  well.  You  have  suffered. 
No  one  will  say  a  word  of  blame  to  you  further." 

He  looked  at  Nialona  as  he  spoke.  He  was  aware 
of  her  domineering  ways.  Then  he  went  out,  and 
Nialona  remained  sullenly  silent. 


Ill; 


Ji^ 


J 


I 


Jl 


i 


XVI 

H  Jf  ea0t  ot  tbe  Dea^ 

Fears  of  another  Iroquois  attack  passed  away  for 
the  time.  The  scouts  sought  in  vain  for  further 
signs  of  the  enemy;  and  the  inhabitants  of  the 
palisades  returned  once  more  to  their  dwelHngs. 
Preparations  for  departure  went  on;  the  daily  tasks, 
the  daily  teaching,  also  went  on  with  little  inter- 
ruption, until  some  of  the  people  left  the  place  to 
take  part  in  a  strange  ceremony. 

On  a  dark  night,  in  a  clearing,  and  under  the 
shadow  of  the  forest,  numberless  fires  blazed.  A 
multitude  of  people  stood  round  a  deep  pit,  some 
of  them  upon  a  scafifold,  others  below  it,  and  flung 
the  remains  of  their  dead,  in  shapeless  rolls,  or 
effigies,  adorned  with  beads  and  feathers,  into  the 
place  of  sepulture,  where  stood  men,  with  long 
poles,  arranging  the  bones  and  skeletons  in  their 
places.  And  from  that  great  multitude  there  went 
up  continually  most  dreary  and  discordant  cries. 

At  intervals  of  from  seven  to  twelve  years,  each 
of  the  four  nations  of  the  Huron  Confederacy  had 
been  accustomed  to  collect  the  skeletons  of  its  dead, 

129 


u  _ 


130   UDe  TRomancc  ot  a  Jesuit  /IMssion 


\'( 


and  deposit  them  in  a  place  of  sepulture  common 
to  all.  Some  of  the  bodies  had  lain  on  scaffolds  for 
years.  In  a  few  cases,  they  haa  been  buried  in  the 
earth. 

Now,  w*hen  villages  were  destroyed  and  tribes 
were  scattered,  the  people  could  not  come  together 
as  of  old  for  the  last  rites  for  their  kindred;  but  it 
was  abhorrent  to  them  to  leave  the  bodies  without 
proper  burial.  They  resolved  that  before  abandon- 
ing their  country  for  the  new  settlement  at  Ahoen- 
doe,  they  would  bring  together  the  skeletons  which 
had  so  long  awaited  sepulture,  and  those  Which  lay 
on  the  fields  of  recent  battle,  and  hold  their  solemn 
Feast  of  the  Dead.  As  far  as  possible  the  Jesuits 
had  buried  the  bodies  of  their  converts  with  the 
rites  of  their  Church;  but  many  who  had  asked  the 
aid  of  the  missionaries  for  their  establishment  at 
Ahoendoe  were  not  converts,  and  practised  their 
pagan  ceremonies. 

In  the  spring  of  1636,  Brebeuf  and  his  associates 
had  seen  the  weird  death  feast  at  the  town  of  Os- 
sossane,  and  regarded  the  tlisplay  of  mortality  as 
so  edifying  that  they  summoned  their  French  at- 
tendants to  contemplate  and  profit  by  it.  For  a 
similar  reason,  when  a  Feast  of  the  Dead  was  to  be 
held  within  easy  distance  of  Sainte  Marie,  the 
Fathers  desired  that  not  only  the  Frenchmen  from 
the  fort,  but  also  some  of  the  inhabitants  of  the 
palisades  should  attend  it.    Dorothy,  Nialona,  and 


a  3f cast  of  tbe  Beat) 


131 


Washaka  went  witli  the  party,  under  t'lic  care  of  a 
Huron  woman  who  had  married  one  of  the  TVcnch 
traders. 

From  scafifolds  and  graves  where  they  had  lain 
for  years,  from  the  forests  and  the  battle-fields, 
corpses  and  bones  were  gathered.  Men  appointed 
for  the  purpose  removed  the  coverings  and  ar- 
ranged the  remains  in  rows.  These  were  sur- 
rounded by  friends  and  relatives,  who  wept  and 
howled.  Then  each  family  claimed  its  own,  re- 
moved the  flesh  from  the  bones,  tenderly  caressed 
them,  and  wrapped  them  in  skins  with  pendants  of 
fur.  The  remains  were  removed  to  one  of  the 
largest  houses,  and  hung  to  the  cross-poles  which 
supported  the  roof.  A  chief  addressed  the  assem- 
bly, and  squaws  distributed  food. 

The  corpses  of  those  who  had  died  recently  were 
then  laid  on  litters,  and  the  bundles  of  bones  were 
slung  on  the  shoulders  of  relatives.  They  believed 
that  these  relics  possessed  feeling  and  conscious- 
ness, and  while  the  procession  made  its  way  along 
the  forest  pathway  voices  were  raised  in  dreary 
wails,  for  the  comfort  of  the  conscious  remains.  At 
the  same  time,  similar  processions  were  coming 
fro.n  other  directions  toward  the  ossuary. 

The  pit  was  in  a  large  clearing,  and  had  been  dug 
in  light  soil.  The  preparations  had  necessarily  been 
more  hasty  than  usual.  Around  the  deep  pit  stood 
a  high  and  strong  scaffolding,  with  many  upright 


it\ 


132    xrbc  IRomancc  ot  a  Jesuit  /iMsslon 

poles  and  cross  poles  between,  on  which  would  be 
hung  the  funeral  gifts  and  the  remains. 

When  the  chiefs  gave  the  word  to  prepare  for 
the  ceremony,  the  bundles  were  opened  for  the  last 
time,  amid  expressions  of  afifection  and  lamenta- 
tion. Presently  the  bones  were  taken  up  again, 
the  processions  moved  in  order  toward  the  pit,  and 
each  went  to  the  spot  assigned  to  it.  The  funeral 
gifts,  some  of  which  were  furs  of  great  value,  were 
displayed  while  the  relics  were  resting  on  the 
ground.  After  a  time,  fires  were  lighted,  the  gifts 
were  repacked,  and  the  bones  taken  up  by  their 
bearers.  At  a  signal,  these  bearers  rushed  toward 
the  scaflfold,  scaled  it  by  rude  ladders,  and  hung 
their  gifts  with  the  relics  on  the  poles.  Chiefs, 
standing  on  the  scaffold,  addressed  the  crowd 
while  a  number  of  men  were  lining  the  pit  with 
robes  of  beaver.  Copper  kettles,  purposely  dam- 
aged by  having  large  holes  knocked  in  the  bottom 
with  tomahawks,  were  placed  in  the  middle.  Then, 
here  and  there,  copper  and  glass  beads,  wampum, 
pipes  and  pottery,  copper  and  stone  axes,  and  va- 
rious utensils  o'  Huron  households,  were  scattered. 
Tne  bodies  of  those  who  had  recently  died  were 
brought  to  the  edge  of  the  pit  and  thrown  in,  and 
the  Indians  Whc  stood  in  the  gruesome  cavern  ar- 
ranged them  in  order. 

There  was  a  horrible  fascination  in  the  scene  for 
Nialona  and  the  Huron  women;  but  to  Dorothy 


^  B  jfeast  of  tbe  S)ea^ 


133 


the  spectacle  was  so  hideous  that  she  longed  to 
escape  to  the  forest,  and  close  her  ears  to  the  cries 
and  her  eyes  to  the  ghastliness. 

"  No,  Dorothy,"  said  Nialona;  "  you  must  not 
go.  Do  you  not  remember  we  are  here  by  com- 
mand of  the  Superior?  Dorothy,  you  seek  to  put 
from  you  every  thought  of  death.  You  fear  to  die. 
What  wonder?  Who  would  not  dread  to  die  with- 
out absolution,  which  you  refuse?  Look,  Dorothy; 
turn  not  away,  but  look.  Those  flames,  the  deep 
pit,  the  dark  forms,  should  bring  to  your  soul  the 
thought  of  the  fires  of  hell — ^the  fires  that  burn 
forever.  Dorothy,  you  must  think.  If  you  think 
not,  repent  not ;  if  you  refuse  to  confess  your  sins, 
you  will  some  day  be  flung  to  the  everlasting  fire, 
as  those  bodies  are  flung  into  the  pit;  and  then  you 
will  find  there  is  no  escape." 

Nialona  stood,  with  her  hand  outstretched, 
pointing,  with  forcible  gestures,  to  the  pit,  and 
then,  as  it  were,  to  Dorothy's  soul.  The  Huron 
girl,  often  deeply  stirred  by  human  jealousies  and 
human  passions,  was,  in  her  way,  a  religious  en- 
thusiast. The  child  of  a  supersti  'ous  race,  her  zeal 
was  fanatical  at  times,  and  sht  j^^r'rsued  Dorothy 
and  her  Huron  sisters  with  appeals  to  repent  and 
profess  the  true  faith. 

Warnings  to  turn  to  a  new  life  and  escape  the 
everlasting  fires  came  to  Dorothy's  ears  with  a 
familiar  sound;  but  in  other  days  they  had  never 


ipw 


134    Ubc  IRonmncc  of  a  5esuU  jflDissfon 

been  emphasized  by  such  a  vivid  object  lesson. 
Could  her  Puritan  guardians  have  heard  Nialona's 
exhortation,  they  would  probably  have  regarded 
the  Huron  girl  as  an  emissary  of  Satan,  seeking  to 
lure  a  soul  to  endless  perdition. 

Dorothy,  white  and  sick  with  horror,  clapped  her 
hands  over  her  ears. 

Nialona,  bent  on  applying  her  lesson,  seized  the 
hands  and  pulled  them  down.  **  Dorothy,  Dor- 
othy," she  shouted,  for  the  din  had  increased,  "  it 
is  true;  if  you  shut  your  ears  to  the  truth,  you  will 
die  in  your  'Ins.    You  will  be  tormented  forever." 

At  that  moment  Dorothy  looked  up,  and,  across 
the  flaming  fires  and  the  hideous  pit,  saw  Leon  de 
Charolais.  With  a  body  of  Hurons  who  had  fled 
to  the  Tobacco  Nation,  he  had  come  to  the  death 
feast.  Surrounded  by  the  dark-skinned  men,  his 
tall,  slig*ht  figure  and  fairer  face  were  easily  dis- 
cernible. For  the  moment,  Dorothy  forgot  Nia- 
lona's pleas  and  all  the  horror  of  the  scene.  He 
was  looking  at  her;  they  might  meet;  yet  he  was 
far  off,  and  there  was  a  great  crowd  between  them. 
It  would  be  impossible  for  her  to  speak  with  him 
now;  but  the  several  processions  would  not  return 
to  their  forest  camps  or  their  scattered  homes  until 
the  next  day;  surely,  they  could  not  be  so  near 
and  be  obliged  to  part  without  a  word. 

But  the  Superior  was  standing  not  far  from  Dor- 
othy.    He  was  near  enough  to  hear  Nialona's 


i-^ 


a  jfcast  ot  tbe  S)ea& 


135 


words,  though  she  was  not  aware  of  it.  He  noticed 
Dorothy's  star't  of  surprise,  the  direction  in  which 
she  turned  her  head;  lie  followed  her  glance,  and 
saw  De  Charolais. 

A  few  moments  later,  Madame  Couture,  the 
Indian  woman  in  whose  care  the  girls  had  come  to 
the  place,  touched  Dorothy's  arm.  The  Superior 
had  sent  word  that  she  must  go  at  once  with  her 
guardian  to  their  camp,  and  remain  there  until  the 
departure  the  following  morning. 

Rebellion  was  in  Dorothy's  heart,  but  she  knew 
it  would  be  useless.  She  turned  from  Madame 
Couture  for  a  last  look  at  Leon.  Unmindful  that 
the  Superior  was  almost  beside  him,  she  made  a  sad 
little  gesture  of  farewell  with  her  hand,  shook  her 
head  slowly,  and  turned  away. 

"  Leon  de  Charolais,  why  are  you  here?  "  asked 
Father  Ragueneau,  in  a  tone  that  sent  the  blood  to 
Leon's  cheek. 

"  I  came,  Father,  by  command  of  Father  Gamier. 
The  men  with  me  would  not  consent  to  forego  pay- 
ing the  last  respect  to  their  dead.  By  Father  Gar- 
nier's  wish,  I  accompanied  them.  I  bear  a  letter 
for  you;  but  we  were  late  in  arriving;  up  to  this 
moment  I  have  had  no  opportunity  to  present  it." 

Ragueneau  took  the  letter,  which  was  written  on 
birch  bark,  and  the  contents  assured  him  that  the 
young  man  had  spoken  the  truth.  Moreover,  he 
could  have  had  no  reason  to  think  that  Dorothy 


ss^a 


i 


136    zhc  "Romance  ot  a  Jesuit  /HMsslon 

would  attend  the  ceremony.  She  had  not  been  in- 
formed of  it  until  within  a  few  hours  of  the  time 
when  the  party  set  out  from  Sainte  Marie.  Even 
had  she  been  able  to  elude  the  keen,  suspicious  eyes 
of  Nialona — more  vigilant  than  before  since  the 
wandering-  of  Dorothy  and  Washaka — had  she  been 
able  to  vrite  a  letter  on  birch  bark  and  deliver  it 
to  a  mes  i?er,  such  messenger,  travelling  on  foot 
through  til ,  ;  rest,  must  have  'had  at  least  a  two 
days'  journey  uciore  he  could  reach  St.  Matthias. 
The  evidence  proved  that  De  Charolais  could  not 
have  been  aware  that  he  would  see  the  girl. 

"  Father  Gamier  has  done  well,  my  son,"  he  said, 
mildly.  "  No  other  man  could  have  been  spared 
from  the  mission  at  this  time.  You  will  bear  a  few 
lines  from  me  to  St.  Matthias  in  answer  to  this  good 
letter." 

Dorothy  was  kept  under  vigilant  guard;  and  be- 
fore she  was  permitted  to  leave  Madame  Couture's 
camp  in  the  morning  the  men  from  St.  Matthias 
had  set  out  on  their  return  journey. 


i 

i 


XVII 

XCbc  I>cpartttre  trora  Safnte  /Barle 

Preparations  for  departure  from  the  fort  were 
hastened.  The  missionaries  superintended  the 
construction  of  a  vessel  to  carry  some  of  their 
stores.  A  large  raft  was  also  built.  They  had  to 
remove  the  pictures,  vestments,  sacred  vessels,  and 
images  from  their  church;  furniture,  weapons,  and 
ammunition,  tools,  goods  for  barter  with  Indians, 
cattle,  swine,  and  poultry.  Moreover,  they  had  a 
large  stock  of  corn,  in  part  the  produce  of  their  own 
fields,  and  in  part  purchased  from  the  Hurons  in 
years  of  plenty. 

Several  days  before  they  and  the  soldiers  and 
traders  abandoned  the  fort,  they  sent  out  the  party 
from  the  palisades,  accompanied  by  a  few  French- 
men and  a  strong  guard  of  Huron  men. 

On  a  large  raft  were  placed  light  furniture,  pro- 
visions, and  clothing.  Some  members  of  the  party 
travelled  on  the  raft;  but  the  greater  number  made 
the  journey  in  canoes.  Kishik  mourned  because 
she  had  to  leave  her  comfortable  lodge.  Her  feel- 
ing was  shared  by  the  old  people;  they  wanted  rest 

»37 


id 


t'    «1 


^1 

I'm 


I    I 


i 


138    XTbe  "Romance  ot  a  Jesuit  /iMssion 

and  peace,  but  a  long  life  of  drudgery  had  brought 
many  of  them  to  a  sluggish  acceptance  of  any  con- 
dition of  life  that  came  to  them. 

On  a  June  morning  the  fleet  of  canoes  set  oHf. 
The  young  people  were  in  liigh  spirits;  they  en- 
joyed change  and  the  suspension  of  daily,  irksome 
tasks. 

In  a  large  canoe  with  Kishik  and  her  girls  went 
Monsieur  and  Madame  Couture  and  their  three 
young  children.  The  women,  with  the  exception 
of  Kishik,  took  turns  in  paddling.  The  canoes  kept 
as  near  ^-ogetber  as  possible;  and  from  time  to 
time,  as  they  sped  on  their  way,  the  young  people 
sang  in  chorus  the  hymns  of  their  church  or  some 
of  the  Huron  songs.  To  all  appearance,  the  Iro- 
quois had  temporarily  abandoned  their  marauding 
parties  on  the  main  shore;  so  the  young  Hurons 
had  no  fear  of  attracting  unwelcome  attention  by 
their  song. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  first  day's  journey,  the 
canoes  began  to  wind  in  and  out  amid  the  numer- 
ous rocky  islands  of  the  bay.  Some  of  these  islands 
are  little  more  than  points  of  rock  above  the  water; 
others  rear  'high  their  bald,  white  crests;  but  on 
many  a  summit  trees  that  have  sprung  from  the 
crevices  wave  luxuriant  foliage.  Pine  and  red  cedar 
clamber  up  the  slopes;  black  cherries,  raspberries, 
and  huckleberries  are  abundant  in  their  season. 

The  sun  had  dropped  behind  a  peak,  and  the  tints 


Departure  from  Safnte  Obavic       139 


in  the  west  warned  the  voyagers  that  they  must 
find  a  resting-place  for  the  night. 

They  came  at  last  to  a  comparatively  large  island 
where  a  deep,  wooded  ravine  inclined  gently  to  the 
water's  edge,  and  a  broad,  shelving  rock  made  land- 
ing easy.  A  spring  of  clear  water  rippled  down 
the  high,  rocky  walls  and  joined  a  stream  that  had 
worn  a  way  through  the  ravine,  and  they  went 
babbling  together  to  the  bay. 

A  bell-like  sound  warned  them  that  swarms  of 
mosquitoes  would  meet  them  on  their  landing.  The 
Indians  had  little  fear  of  them,  but  for  Dorothy's 
sake  they  promised  to  drive  them  away  with 
smudges. 

Before  long,  hastily  erected  bark  tents  were  scat- 
tered about  the  ravine,  smoke  was  curling  up  from 
a  brushwood  fire,  and  the  cooks  were  preparing  for 
supper  the  black  bass  and  muskallonge  that  had 
been  caught  by  the  way. 

After  their  long  day  on  the  water,  the  voyagers 
were  sleepy  and  tired,  and  went  early  to  rest  on 
their  beds  of  balsam  or  cedar  boughs.  Dorothy 
was  restless  and  could  not  sleep.  She  lay  near  the 
open  entrance  of  her  tent,  looking  up  at  the  stars. 
The  tent  was  close,  the  air  without  was  cool  and 
sweet.  As  quietly  as  possible,  so  she  should  not 
disturb  the  other  inmates,  she  put  on  her  dress  and 
moccasins.  She  intended  to  walk  to  the  shore; 
but  she  saw  the  French  and  Indian  guards  1yin<r' 


:mz 


tmm 


140    Tlbe  IRomance  ot  a  Jesuit  /l^idsion 

there,  and  feared  to  disturb  their  Hght  shimbers. 
She  looked  above,  where  the  limestone  rock  glis- 
tened in  the  moonlight.  It  was  so  peaceful,  so  pure ; 
it  seemed  to  beckon  her  troubled  spirit  to  come  and 
share  its  calm. 

She  clambered  up  on  hands  and  knees,  for  the 
rock  was  very  steep  and  slippery  from  the  dew. 
Here  and  there,  where  great  tufts  of  moss  grew, 
she  rested  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  went  on  her 
way.  Once  she  would  have  fallen  had  she  not  clung 
to  a  shrub  that  sprang  from  a  crevice.  She  came 
unawares  on  the  brink  of  a  great  dhasm.  Some 
mighty  convulsion  of  nature  had  rent  the  rock 
asunder.  Far  beneath,  at  the  foot  of  the  precipice, 
the  dark  water  flowed.  Her  foot  slipped ;  she  felt 
herself  falling;  but  she  caught  a  branch  of  a  tree 
that  grew  at  the  very  edge  of  the  chasm;  and,  for 
a  moment,  clinging  to  it,  swung  above  the  fright- 
ful abyss.  The  tree  was  but  a  slender  one.  Had 
she  been  heavier,  it  would  have  broken  with  her 
weight.  As  it  was,  it  bent  and  swayed.  Her  heart 
beat  fast,  she  was  dizzy  with  dread.  Her  feet  were 
swinging  in  the  air.  With  desperate  courage,  she 
moved,  hand  below  hand,  until  she  reached  the 
trunk  of  the  tree,  drew  herself  close  to  it,  and  then 
climbed  up  again  until  she  could  place  her  feet  on 
the  rock. 

She  moved  from  the  edge  of  the  chasm,  and  lay 
for  awhile,  sick  with  horror  at  the  thought  of  the 


H)eparture  from  Sainte  Obnvic       141 


^ 


fate  she  had  escaped.  She  had  believed  that  she 
wished  to  die;  she  was  thankful  now  that  the  Hfe 
blood  yet  flowed  in  her  veins.  After  all,  hope  had 
not  wholly  left  her;  life  might  yet  hold  some  sweet- 
ness for  her,  though  she  had  drunk  bitter  draughts 
from  its  cup. 

She  sat  up  presently,  and  the  majestic  solitude 
calmed  her.  The  silence  was  unbroken,  save  by  the 
rustling  of  the  leaves  and  the  plash  of  waves  on  the 
shore. 

Then  her  ear  caught  the  sound  of  some  one  clam- 
bering up  the  rock.  She  crept  under  a  heavy  bush, 
and  peered  through  the  low-hanging  branches.  It 
might  be  an  enemy.  A  head  appeared  above  a  jut- 
ting rock,  and  Dorothy  beheld  the  ever-watchful 
Nialona. 

She  left  her  retreat,  and  cried,  "  O,  Nialona,  why 
come  you  here?  " 

"  To  me  belongs  that  question,"  replied  Nialona, 
indignantly.  "Why  have  you  done  this,  and 
brought  fear  to  the  heart  of  every  one?  " 

"  I  could  not  sleep.  I  wanted  to  be  alone.  I 
meant  no  wrong.  In  a  little  time,  I  would  have 
returned." 

"  And  who  could  know  that?  I  awoke;  I  found 
your  place  empty.  I  aroused  others  to  help  me  to 
seek  you." 

"  But,  Nialona,  the  poor  women,  the  children; 
they  were  so  weary;  their  sleep  should  not  be 
broken." 


m'^ 


I 


?)' 


m' ' 


142    ZYjc  IRomance  ot  a  Sesuft  /iMsalon 

"  Dorothy,  think  you  I  am  a  madwoman  who 
would  rouse  every  one?  When  I  found  you  had 
fled,  I  soug'ht  only  the  aid  of  the  men  on  the  shore." 

Nialona's  tone  was  the  dictatorial  one  she  had 
for  some  time  assumed  toward  Dorothy.  Though 
she  had  not  been  taken  into  the  Superior's  con- 
fidence, she  was  aware  that  he  entertained  some 
suspicions  regarding  the  stranger.  He  had  placed 
her  in  a  position  of  guard  and  authority  over  her 
guest.  She  had  also  been  the  instructor  and  guide 
of  her  Huron  sisters.  She  believed  that  the  Fathers 
looked  upon  her  as  their  confidante  and  a  model  to 
which  the  other  women  in  the  palisades  should 
conform.  She  naturally  magnified  her  own  virtues 
and  importance.  Besides,  she  had  her  own  charge 
against  Dorothy.  Before  the  arrival  of  the  white 
girl,  the  young  men,  Frenchmen  as  well  as  Indians, 
had  paid  her  flattering  attentions.  She  was  hand- 
some, and  civilization  had  developed  her  native 
beauty.  The  young  Indians  perceived  her  superior- 
ity to  her  untutored  kinswomen,  and  the  French- 
men found  more  interest  in  her  companionship  than 
in  that  of  the  other  Huron  girls.  With  the  excep- 
tion of  Was^haka  and  Fanasawa,  who  had  been 
under  instruction  for  several  years,  even  the  con- 
verts of  the  mission  were  not  far  removed  from 
savagery.  Since  Dorothy  had  been  with  them  Nia- 
lona  had  been  comparatively  neglected.  Though 
the  Fathers  had  made  stringent  rules,  and  had 


Departure  from  Sainte  Obatic       143 

finally  forbidden  the  young  Frenchmen  to  enter 
the  palisades,  the  direction  of  their  eyes  in  the 
church,  and  the  eagerness  with  which  they  sought 
opportunity  to  say  a  word  to  Dorothy  after  the 
services,  or  when  they  accompanied  the  girls  as 
guards  on  any  excursions,  kept  jealousy  burning 
in  the  Indian  heart.    While  she  had  rejoiced  in  her 
queendom,  she  had  treated  some  of  the  men  dis- 
dainfully.   But  she  had  shown  favor  to  one  man, 
and  when,  soon  after  Dorothy's  arrival,  she  per- 
ceived that  he  was  growing  indifferent  to  her,  she 
was  filled  with  bitterness.    She  believed  that  Dor- 
othy had  used  every  art  to  win  the  young  men,  for 
Victor  Caradeuc  had  not  been  the  only  one  who 
had  shown  himself  fickle.    Had  not  Leon  de  Charo- 
lais,  who  was  pledged  to  the  Church,  been  lured 
from  his  duty  by  the  false  stranger?  Had  not  Raoul 
Hauteroche  forsaken  Washaka?    Dorothy  had  pre- 
tended to  dislike  and  avoid  Hautetoche;  but  Nia- 
lona  beHeved  it  was  only  pretence,  and  that,  in  her 
own  way,  she  must  have  encouraged  him.     For 
weeks  she  had  cherished  these  feelings  against  the 
white  girl,  and  made  Doro-thy  aware  of  her  attitude 
by  many  an  ill-natured  speech;  and  Dorothy  had 
been  greatly  relieved  by  the  announcv^ment  that 
Caradeuc  had  not  been  appointed  to  assist  in  guard- 
ing the  party  to  Isle  St.  Joseph. 

"  Dorothy,  you  must  return  at  once,"  said  Nia- 
lona.    "  The  men  are  weary,  yet  they  will  seek  you 


t 


1 1 

I  I 


1 
.  1 
I    I 


111! 


144    Xlbc  IRomance  ot  a  Jesuit  flDigsion 

by  land  and  water;  for  who  could  know  if  you  had 
paddled  away? " 

Nialona's  manner  was  most  irritating;  but  Dor 
othy  controlled  her  anger.    She  knew  she  had  givei* 
trouble,  and  was  sorry  for  it. 

**  Yes,  Nialona,  I  will  go  with  you  at  once,"  she 
said,  as  amiably  as  she  could. 

They  were  about  to  begin  the  descent,  when 
Rene  le  Breton's  dark  head  appeared  above  a  point 
of  rock. 

"  Mademoiselle  Dorothee,"  he  exclaimed,  joy- 
fully, "  you  are  safe!  But  what  alarm  you  have 
caused  us! " 

"  O,  I  grieve,  I  am  sorry,"  said  Dorothy,  peni- 
tently. 

The  young  man  made  the  ascent  quickly,  and  in 
a  few  moments  stood  beside  the  girls. 

"  Fair  maiden,"  he  said,  looking  at  Dorothy  with 
an  admiration  which  Nialona  resented,  "  we  have 
been  roused  from  our  slumbers,  and  have  received 
many  bruises  from  these  rocks  in  your  service.  In 
return,  grant  us  a  favor;  inform  us  why  you  roam 
thus  at  midnight." 

"  I — I  desired  to  meditate  in  quiet." 

*'  To  meditate!  Ah,  and  your  thoughts  were  of 
lofty  things,  therefore  you  sought  this  height. 
Well,  the  good  Father^:,  were  they  here,  would  have 
no  word  of  blame  for  you;  for  do  they  not  con- 
tinually urge  us  to  seek  tlie  grace  that  comes  from 


n 


departure  from  Sainte  /iDarte       145 

solitary  meditation?  Yet,  when  you  wish  to  sit 
apart,  at  the  midnight  hour,  by  the  hght  of  the 
moon,  it  will  be  well  to  inform  us  of  your  purpose, 
and  so  spare  us  some  anxious  moments." 

"  I  will  bear  it  in  mind,  Monsieur  le  Breton.  I 
have  said,  I  am  grieved  for  my  fault.  But  how 
knew  I  that  any  one  would  be  roused?  Yet  many 
times  have  I  caused  sorrow  to  others  by  reason  of 
my  lack  of  thought." 

"  Ah,  do  not  accuse  yourself.  You  came  here  to 
sit  alone  with  your  thoughts,  and  yet  you  tell  us 
you  have  lack  of  thought." 

"  Come,"  said  Nialona,  severely,  "  why  waste 
time?  Others  are  still  seeking,  we  know  not 
where."  She  felt  impatient  with  Dorothy's  labored 
attempts  to  reply  in  French  to  Le  Breton's  foolish 
speeches. 

"  Let  us  tarry  a  while,"  said  Rene.  "  I  must  see 
this  deep  abyss.  On  one  of  the  islands  of  this  bay 
there  yawns  a  chasm  that  bears  the  name,  *  The 
Lovers'  Leap.'  Tradition  relates  that  the  lover  of 
a  Huron  girl  had  forsaken  her,  and  in  her  despair 
she  paddled  off  alone  in  her  canoe,  and  sought  death 
on  the  water.  But  the  water  spirits  refused  to  grant 
her  desire.  Many  times  she  cast  herself  down,  seek- 
ing to  sink  to  the  bed  of  the  lake;  but  they  bore  up 
her  body,  and  she  floated  on  the  surface  in  their 
arms;  in  the  wildest  storms  her  canoe  rode  the 
waves  in  safety.    One  day  she  landed  on  an  island 


mn 


WBSSSSBBSSSSi 


i*^  i  :i 


Eg  .1 


(  ; 


I 


^'i! 
( 


111 


M 


146    XTbe  IRomance  of  a  Result  /B^ission 

— this  island,  it  must  be — she  came  to  a  mighty 
chasm,  and  a  voice  from  the  water  beneath  seemed 
to  call  her  to  death.  Her  spirit  answered  the  call; 
she  was  ready  to  fling  herself  from  the  brink,  when 
she  heard  a  footstep  on  the  rock,  and,  looking  back, 
saw  the  form  of  a  man  v/ho  had  loved  her  for  many 
years;  but  for  him  she  cared  nothing.  He  had 
sought  her  untiringly.  He  did  not  see  the  chasm, 
and  uttered  a  cry  of  joy.  But  her  answer  was  not 
given  to  him,  but  to  the  cry  of  the  death  spirit  in 
the  water  below.  He  sprang  to  her;  but  she  cast 
herself  down,  and  he  followed  her  to  death." 

Rend  restrained  a  smile  at  Dorothy's  serious  face. 
She  looked  down  the  precipice,  and  shuddered. 

"  The  story  goes,  that  m  the  world  of  spirits  she 
recognized  the  devotion  of  her  true  lover.  Yet  her 
phantom  canoe  is  often  seen  winding  in  and  out  of 
the  channels  between  these  islands,  and  his  is  always 
in  pursuit.  The  false  lover  and  the  girl  who  had 
stolen  him  away  had  no  peace.  Many  troubles  be- 
fell them.  They  were  haunted  by  visions  of  the 
phantom  canoe,  and  of  the  body  of  the  girl  floating 
out  from  the  water  of  the  chasm  to  the  bay.  When 
the  false  lover  went  a~fishing  at  night,  by  the  light 
of  his  tcrch  he  saw  reflected  back  from  the  water 
the  eyes  of  the  dead  woman." 

"  It  was  the  justice  of  heaven  that  he  should  be 
tormented,"  said  Nialona,  viciously.  "  And  the 
girl,  so  false,  so  treacherous,  it  was  right  that  her 
heart  should  find  no  happiness." 


H)epatture  from  Saintc  flDarle       147 

She  gave  a  glance  at  Dorothy,  which  she  did' 
not  wish  Rene  to  observe.  But  his  eyes  were  quick, 
and  he  perceived  at  once  that  there  was  trouble 
between  the  two,  though  he  was  unaware  of  the 
cause  oi  Nialona's  jealousy.  As  'he  had  his  own 
share  of  masculine  vanity,  he  believed  he  had 
aroused  her  ill-feeling  by  his  manner  toward  Dor- 
othy, and  told  himself  that  he  must  be  very  discreet. 

"  No  eyes  of  the  living  beheld  the  death  of  the 
faithful  girl  and  her  true  lover,"  he  said,  addressing 
himself  to  Nialona;  "  and  no  one  can  tell  how  that 
part  of  the  story  became  known.  It  may  be  the 
two  revealed  it  when  they  paddled  in  their  phantom 
canoes;  or  it  may  be  she  came  from  the  spirit  land 
to  whisper  it  in  dreams  to  the  faithless  one.  It 
must  be  that  the  man  who  was  so  true  was  of  our 
race.  Would  any  Huron  so  love  a  girl  that  he 
would  die  for  her?  " 

At  that  moment  Monsieur  Couture  and  an  Ind- 
ian appeared. 

*'  Why  have  you  done  ihis?  "  he  asked,  roughly, 
looking  at  Dorothy  with  angry  eyes.  He  had  been 
roused  from  his  much-needed  rest;  and  he  had 
been  very  anxious,  because  the  Superior  had  espe- 
cially placed  Dorothy  under  his  care. 

"  I — could  not  sleep,"  faltered  the  girl.  "  I  am 
sorry." 

"  You  give  too  much  trouble.  I  sh  ill  be  thank- 
ful, Father  Ragueneau  will  be  thankful,  when  you 


i( 


■yi  -HFWi^^^lwpy^ 


,%' 


..!■! 


i 

'I' 


l'?i' 


148    trbe  IRoinancc  ot  a  3esuit  /ftiseton 

can  be  sent  to  Quebec  and  put  in  the  charge  of 
some  strict  woman  who  will  know  how  to  manage 
you." 

Dorothy's  lip  quivered,  and,  involuntarily,  her 
eyes  sought  Rene's  protection. 

What  chivalrous  youth  would  not  ret'  ""i  a  re- 
sponsive glance  if  appealed  to  by  eyes  so  l  j:autiful? 

Rene  was  an  exemplar  of  chivalry,  and;  notwith- 
standing 'his  light  tone  when  talking  of  affairs  of 
the  heart,  he  was  susceptible  and  romantic. 

When  he  left  France  to  live  in  the  wilderness  he 
believed  that  his  heart  had  been  wounded  beyond 
healing;  for  a  lovely  woman  had  rejected  his  ad- 
dresses and  given  her  affections  to  another. 

He  had  not  expected  that  his  work  in  the  mission 
would  cure  the  Vv^ounds;  he  had  hoped,  at  the  mos*- 
that  work  and  time  would  in  some  degree  assuage 
their  aching. 

Two  years  had  passed,  and  though  he  bore  in  his 
heart  his  unrequited  affection,  and  assumed — when 
he  thought  of  it — a  pensive  air  that  was  very  be- 
coming, the  wounds  were  undoubtedly  in  process 
of  healing. 

At  times,  after  he  had  visited  Kishik's  lodge  with 
the  object  of  cheering  Nialona,  who  was  homesick 
for  France,  he  had  considered  the  possibility — as 
a  sort  of  revenge  for  the  wrongs  civilization  had 
wrought  him— of  following  the  example  of  Mon- 
sieur Couture  and  other  Frenchmen  and  wedding 


*,f! 


P'l 


^W^^^JrajfiM^^ 


1.) 


iDeparture  from  Sainte  /©arte      149 

an  Indian  girl.  It  would  entail  some  sacrifices,  but 
he  might  find  a  solace  in  making  Nialona  happy. 

After  Dorothy's  arrival  he  put  this  consideration 
aside.  He  could  do  so  without  dishonor.  He  had 
made  no  declaration  to  Nialona,  and  it  had  become 
plain  to  him  that  she  preferred  another. 

His  sympathetic  heart  had  been  touched  by  the 
pathos  of  poor  Dorothy's  face  and  the  trials  of  her 
condition.  She  was  placed  under  a  constant  sur- 
veillance which  must  be  hard  to  bear.  He  surmised 
that  it  was  in  part  the  outcome  of  the  devotion  of 
Leon  de  Charolais,  which  had  been  observed  and 
commented  upon  by  the  young  soldiers  and  traders. 
But  now,  when  Leon  was  safely  out  of  the  way, 
why  should  the  Superior's  face  grow  so  stern  when 
he  spoke  of  Dorothy?  He  had  heard  it  suggested 
that  the  Fathers  suspected  there  was  a  mystery,  a 
sorrowful  secret,  in  her  past,  but  that  no  one  knew 
more  about  her  life  than  she  had  confided  to  Leon, 
and  that  was  little.  A  secret  sorrow  made  her  the 
more  interesting,  and  no  one  who  looked  into  her 
face  of  almost  child-like  innocence  and  purity  could 
believe  that  she  was  concealing  any  wrong  deed  of 
her  own.  He  had  been  annoyed  by  Hauteroche's 
flippant  tone  when  he  spoke  of  her,  and  had  re- 
garded himself  as  her  defender. 

Now  the  quivering  Up  and  tear-dimmed  eyes 
called  for  his  good  offices.  He  gave  her  a  protective 
and  sympathetic  glance,  and  turned  to  Couture. 


Hi 


ISO    Ube  IRomance  of  a  Jesuit  amission 


I  'J 


I :'.! 


tt 


My  good  friend,"  said  he,  "  Mademoiselle  Dor- 
othee  should  be  commended,  not  censured.  She 
climbed  to  this  height  with  much  difficulty,  as  we 
can  all  testify,  for  solitary  meditation.  The  Fathers 
themselves  could  not  have  chosen  a  place  more  fit- 
ting. And  look,  are  we  not  well  repaid  for  follow- 
ing her  upward  to  this  scene  of  wondrous  beauty? 
Behold  it:  in  the  distance,  the  dark  forest-clad 
shores  of  the  mainland  and  a  glimpse  of  the  moonlit 
waters  of  the  bay;  far  and  near,  for  miles  around 
us,  see  the  islands,  set  like  jewels,  rimmed  with  the 
sparkling  silver  of  the  crested  waves;  mark  the 
varied  shapes,  the  many  colors.  Were  it  an  hour 
of  sunlight,  the  fruit  of  yonder  tree  would  be  ruby 
drops  against  the  white  stone,  touched  with  a  re- 
flection of  emerald  from  the  deep  water  of  the 
ravine  below.  Your  dreams,  my  friend,  should  be 
the  sweeter  for  remembrance  of  the  scene.  And 
now  let  us  descend  to  the  fragrant  valley." 

Monsieur  Couture  smiled.  He  understood  the 
purpose  of  the  young  man's  ramblings,  and  Dor- 
othy rewarded  Rene  by  a  grateful  glance. 

At  that  moment  his  unrequited  affection  was  not 
a  noticeable  burden. 


1.^ 


XVIII 

0n  tbe  f  die  St  5odepb.   1Rcni  Seefis  S)or« 
otbs*s  <rontt&ence 

The  voyagers  found  their  second  day's  travel 
wearisome.  The  wind  had  dropped,  there  was 
hardly  a  ripple  on  the  water,  and  the  glare  of  the 
sun  was  almost  intolerable.  Tlie  novelty  had 
passed,  and  the  little  ones  were  restless  and  irri- 
table. But  when  the  sun  had  gone  down,  and  a 
cool  breeze  swept  over  the  bay,  when  they  could 
look  at  the  dark,  varied  line  of  the  shore  without 
aching  eyes,  they  would  willingly  have  remained 
longer  on  the  water.  They  were  near  enough  to 
the  mainland  to  hear  the  clear  cry  of  the  whip-poor- 
will,  but  there  might  be  a  risk  of  encounter  with 
some  lurking  Iroquois;  so  they  set  up  their  tents 
for  the  night  on  a  small  island. 

On  the  evening  of  the  third  day  they  arrived  at 
Isle  St.  Joseph,  near  the  entrance  of  Matchedash 
Bay.  There  were  three  islands  near  togetlier;  the 
largest,  the  future  home  of  the  mission,  was  six  or 


m 


I'? 


r4l 

jll 

ill 


■^•.'t 


•)■', 


152    Ube  IRomance  ot  a  Scmit  Obis&ion 

eight  miles  wide,  and  densely  covered  with  the 
primeval  forest.* 

They  found  about  three  hundred  Huron  families 
already  established  in  the  woods.  They  had  erected 
wigwams  and  sheds  of  bark,  had  made  some  rough 
clearings  and  planted  a  little  corn.  But  they  had 
all  lost  heart.  They  felt  they  were  a  doomed  peo- 
ple, and  they  lounged  in  the  forest,  woful  and  de- 
spondent. They  were  half  famished,  too,  for  they 
had  not  brought  sufificient  provisions  with  them, 
and  did  not  fish  and  hunt  energetically  enough  to 
renew  their  supplies. 

The  arrival  of  the  party  from  the  palisades  roused 
them.  A  large  number  of  them  had  never  seen 
Dorothy,  and  she  was  an  object  of  much  curiosity 
and  interest  to  them.  They  built  their  fires,  and 
hung  their  kettles,  each  on  a  tripod  of  poles,  to  give 
the  new  comers  a  welcome.  They  were  a  hospita- 
ble people;  they  gave  generously  from  their  small 
stores,  and  when  the  visitors  had  satisfied  their 
hunger  the  men  helped  them  to  erect  their  tem- 
porary wigwams. 

A  bark  lodge  was  put  up  for  Kishik  and  her  girls; 
Washaka  had  been  for  some  time  a  member  of  Kisli- 
ik's  household.  The  Hurons  would  have  built  the 
lodge  in  the  midst  of  their  hastily  erected  village. 


*  These  islands  are  now  known  as  Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity 
Charity  is  also  called  Christian  Island. 


•ffsle  St.  Sosepb 


153 


but  Nialona  persuaded  them  to  set  it  up  in  a  grove 
at  a  little  distance.  The  disorder  and  uncleanliness 
of  the  village  would  have  been  almost  as  intolerable 
to  her  as  to  Dorothy.  But,  in  spite  of  the  precau- 
tion of  setting  it  apart,  their  lodge  was  continually 
overrun  by  idle  squaws  and  unruly  children.  The  or- 
phan children  from  the  palisades  broke  bounds  and 
became  nearly  as  unmanageable  as  their  new  asso- 
ciates. The  girls  who  had  taught  in  the  school  tried 
to  gather  the  young  savages  in  a  large  grove  and 
give  them  some  instruction.  But  neither  threat 
nor  commendation  availed,  and  they  were  com- 
pelled to  resort  to  rewards  or  bribes,  promising 
two  or  three  beads,  a  trinket,  or  a  lump  of  maple 
sugar  to  those  who  sat  quietly  on  the  ground, 
learned  a  few  words  of  a  hymn  or  prayer,  or  stood 
up  in  good  order  to  go  through  a  drill.  But  this 
was  also  a  failure,  for  those  who  had  received  re- 
wards were  pounced  on  by  the  others,  and  a  general 
struggle  ensued.  So,  until  the  arrival  of  the  mis- 
sionaries, the  young  teachers  limited  their  efforts 
to  the  instruction  of  the  children  of  their  own 
party. 

But,  notwithstanding  difficulties,  their  first  days 
on  the  island  were  pleasant  ones.  The  weather  was 
delightful,  and  they  could  escape  from  the  Indian 
village  and  wander  in  the  woods.  No  Iroquois  had 
been  seen  anywhere  in  the  neighborhood;  guards 
were  constantly  on  the  lookout  for  strange  canoes, 


'HI 


f  1 


1 


i  "1 


1 


PI 


k  t 


11 


IH; 


154    Ube  IRomance  of  a  Jesuit  /iDission 

so  the  girls  were  free  to  ramble  far  from  the  tents. 
They  gathered  flowers,  fished  in  the  streams,  found 
the  eggs  of  wild  fowl  near  the  shores,  sat  in  the 
woods  plaiting  baskets  and  other  household  arti- 
cles from  strips  of  bark,  bathed  in  a  shallow  cove, 
or  paddled  in  their  canoes  within  safe  distance  from 
the  island.  A  little  later  in  the  season  there  would 
be  an  abundant  supply  of  berries,  and  there  was 
difBculty  in  restraining  the  children  from  eating 
the  green  ones.  With  the  assistance  of  the  Indian 
boys  they  fenced  plots  of  ground  for  their  gardens 
and  poultry  yards.  Some  of  their  poultry  had  been 
brought  on  the  large  raft,  and  the  missionaries 
would  bring  the  rest. 

In  the  days  before  the  arrival  of  the  Fathers, 
Dorothy  saw  for  the  first  time  many  of  the  peculiar 
rites  of  the  heathen  Indians,  who,  unrestrained  by 
the  presence  of  the  priests,  gave  themselves  up 
to  their  superstitions. 

A  warrior  had  dreamed  that  he  would  die  if  the 
evil  spirits  were  not  propitiated  by  a  feast,  and 
though  provisions  were  scarce  his  comrades  felt 
bound  to  comply  with  his  request.  A  party  of 
hunters  had  come  in  with  a  supply  of  game,  and  the 
fishermen  had  also  been  busy.  The  invited  gUests 
were  obliged  to  eat  all  that  was  set  before  them, 
regardless  of  their  subsequent  discomfort.  To  re- 
fuse would  not  only  be  a  grave  ofifence,  but  would 
imperil  the  life  of  their  brother.    The  Jesuits  gave 


f  die  St.  Sosepb 


155 


to  such  feasts  the  name  "  Festins  a  manger  tout." 
The  guests  generally  dreaded  them,  but  dared  not 
decline. 

The  warrior  in  whose  honor  the  feast  was  given 
did  not  die,  but  many  of  the  feasters  were  seriously 
ill  from  the  effects  of  the  gorge  following  their 
enforced  abstinence.  Incantations,  magic  songs, 
and  frightful  noise,  produced  by  whooping  and 
beating  with  sticks  on  dry  sheets  of  bark  and  on 
drums,  were  unavailing  to  exorcise  the  demon  of 
disease;  so  the  grand  festival  of  the  Ononhara,  or 
Dream  Feast,  was  held.  At  midnight  all  the  pagans 
in  the  village  and  a  large  number  who  had  called 
themselves  Christians — men,  women,  and  children 
— assembled  in  a  clearing  just  outside  the  village, 
and  there  affected  to  have  lost  their  senses.  Some 
of  the  actors  had  little  clothing,  but  were  paint- 
ed in  various  colors;  others  were  extravagantly 
decked  with  beads,  furs,  and  feathers.  Presently 
the  crowd  separated,  and  in  bands,  in  couples,  or 
singly,  darted  from  house  to  house,  shrieking  and 
howling,  dancing  and  raving,  some  throwing  fire- 
brands, others  discharging  the  contents  of  their 
water-buckets  over  any  one  they  met.  In  a  day  or 
two  afterward  the  sick  men,  who  had  had  time  to 
overcome  the  effects  of  their  gluttony,  began  to 
mend,  and  their  recovery  was  attributed  to  these 
orgies. 

The  little  company  of  Christians  began  to  look 


k 


I 


l-v 


'1 


1 1 


i5<^    Ube  IRomancc  of  a  3esu!t  /iDission 

with  anxiety  for  the  arrival  of  the  Fathers,  with 
their  Frenchmen,  for  they  feared  that  some  cere- 
mony of  the  pagans  might  be  attended  with  dan- 
gerous results. 

Rene  le  Breton  and  another  Frenchman  set  up 
their  tent  not  far  from  Kishik's  lodge,  and  were  on 
the  watch  for  any  outbreak. 

The  capacity  of  guardian  was  acceptable  to  Rene, 
and  he  thought  it  entitled  him  to  take  counsel  with 
his  wards. 

At  the  close  of  a  warm  June  day  he  called  at  the 
lodge,  and  found  Dorothy  sitting  on  a  log  before 
the  entrance,  trying  to  get  a  breath  of  cool  air. 

"  O,  Mademoiselle  Dorothee,"  he  pleaded,  "  on 
the  water  the  breeze  is  refreshing.  It  will  honor 
me  if  you  come  with  me  in  my  canoe." 

"  I  thank  you,"  said  Dorothy,  with  a  little  sigh; 
"  you  arc  kind.  But — have  you  not  heard  that  the 
Superior  has  forbidden  me  to  accompany  the  young 
men  on  the  water,  to  receive  visits  from  them?  " 

"  It  is  folly!  "  said  Rene,  indignantly.  "  Are  you 
a  child  that  they  should  treat  you  so?  Yet — you 
speak  wisely — the  orders  of  Father  Ragueneau 
must  be  obeyed." 

"  It  grieves  me,  Monsieur  le  Breton.  My  wish 
is  to  go  with  you.  Your  kindness  has  comforted 
me.  You  have  helped  me — to — put  away,  for  a 
little  time,  the  sad  thoughts." 

Rene  flushed  with  pleasure ;  his  voice  was  tremu- 


Isle  St,  506epb 


157 


lous  and  tender  when  he  asked:  "  Have  I  indeed 
comforted  you?  And,  tell  me,  trust  me,  what  are 
the  sad  thoughts  I  have  helped  you  to  forget?  " 

The  deep  blue  eyes  turned  on  him  took  a  softer 
light,  and  Dorothy  answered:  "  You  have  com- 
forted me  in  this;  others,  not  all,  but  many,  have 
distrusted  me.  I  have  perceived  it,  ah,  so  often; 
sometimes  by  the  word  spoken,  sometimes  by  the 
look  alone.  It  has  not  been  so  with  you.  At  all 
times  you  have  given  to  me  your  respect,  your 
true  kindness.  My  own  heart  knows  how  deeply 
it  is  grateful." 

Rene's  chivalric  frame  thrilled — a  beautiful  girl 
had  given  him  thf^  place  of  champion  and  consoler. 
At  that  moment  his  unrequited  affection  was  not 
discernible.  A  day  or  two  before  this  meeting  he 
had  argued  with  himself  that  to  cherish  a  grief  over 
the  inevitable  was  unmanly  and  unphilosophical; 
had  resolved  that  he  would  not  continue  to  indulec 
in  such  weakness,  whatever  the  effort  might  cost 
him;  and  had  then  proceeded  to  pat  himself  gently 
for  his  heroic  self-conquest. 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  looking  down  at  Dorothy  with 
devotion  in  his  eyes,  "  they  who  mistrust  you  must 
be  blind  indeed." 

Dorothy  sighed  deeply.  "  But  I  am  unable  to 
tell  them  what  they  ask,  and  the  good  Fathers 
believe  that  in  my  silence  I  conceal  some  evil  I  have 
done.    That  is  hard  to  bear,  yet  I  cannot  speak. 


• 


lilf 


I 


,  1 


hi 


15S    XTbe  IRomance  ot  a  5e9uit  ADission 

I  have  indeed  endeavored  to  please  them,  to  obey 
every  rule;  and  thus  it  is,  Monsieur  Rene,  though 
I  greatly  desire  to  converse  with  you,  I  may  not 
disobey  the  order  of  the  Superior,  and  I  must  beg 
you  now  to  leave  me." 

The  young  man's  countenance  fell.  Doubtless 
the  Fathers  showed  discretion  in  prohibiting  the 
visits  of  some  men.  But  it  was  monstrous  that  he, 
Rene  le  Breton,  should  be  deprived  of  liberty  to 
do  as  he  chose  in  this  matter. 

His  silence  disturbed  Dorothy.  She  feared  she 
had  offended  him. 

"  O,  believe  me,  I  grieve  to  tell  you  this,"  she 
said,  with  much  concern.  "  I  would  that  you 
might  come  often  and  converse  with  me,  that  I 
might  ask  counsel  of  you,  as  of  a  brother.  Ah,  if 
I  had  ever  had  a  brother " 

She  broke  off  and  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands. 

Rene  did  not  desire  to  be  accepted  in  that  re- 
lationship, but  it  would  serve  to  begin  with;  so 
he  said,  tenderly,  "  Trust  me  as  you  would  trust 
a  brother,  Sister  Dorothee,  dear  little  Sister 
Dorothee." 

She  looked  up  with  a  smile,  though  ''  vera 
tears  in  her  sweet  eyes.  "  Yes,  I  trusi  ou  as  a 
brother,  and  I  permit  you  to  address  me  by  that 
name.  Brother  Rene." 

The  watchful  Nialona  appeared  at  that  moment 


■. 


f  die  St.  5odepb 


159 


and  looked  at  the  pair  suspiciously.  Two  days 
passed  before  Rene  had  another  opportunity  for 
conversation  with  his  new  sister.  Then,  to  his 
great  satisfaction,  he  found  her  wandering  in  the 
woods  alone. 

"  Why  so  serious,  my  sister  Dorothee? "  he 
asked.  "  Tell  your  brother  of  what  you  were  think- 
ing so  deeply." 

"  I  was  thinking  of — a  day  in  England." 

"  And  your  thoughts  have  made  you  sad.  Why 
will  you  not  share  them  with  me,  and  so  lighten 
your  burden?  " 

"Ah,  no,  I  cannot,  I  cannot;  it  is  not  for  my 
adopted  brother  to  share  that." 

He  bent  his  head  low,  and  said  softly:  "  Look 
into  my  face  and  tell  me,  will  you  not  one  day  share 
the  secret  burden  with  one  whose  right  it  will  be 
to  bear  it — one  nearer,  dearer,  than  a  brother?  " 

She  looked  startled,  and  drew  herself  away.  "  I 
—do  not  understand." 

"  Sweet  sister  Dorothee,  some  day  you  will  trust, 
you  will  tell  all  to — your  husband?  " 

He  had  had  no  intention  of  going  so  far.  When 
he  had  tried  to  analyze  his  feelings  in  the  matter  he 
had  discovered  that  his  broken  heart  was  mending, 
had,  indeed,  so  far  recovered  that  it  was  capable  of 
receiving  another  love;  but  it  could  never  love  as 
it  had  loved  once,  that  was  out  of  the  question. 
Moreover,  under  present  circumstances,  he  could 


,  t 


mmmm 


II iiujiiiiiiirf 


'M     ' 


t 


m 


HP 
•I 


1 60   tCbe  IRomance  ot  a  Result  /Disston 

rsot  ask  Dorothy  to  marry  him.  Chivalrous  as  he 
was,  he  had  remembered  that  family  considerations 
should  deter  him  from  committing  himself  rashly 
to  any  pledge  to  one  who  had  a  mystery  in  her 
past.    His  own  words  somewhat  startled  him. 

But  Dorothy's  answer  was  far  more  disturbing. 
"  My — husba.'.d,"  she  faltered.  "  O — there  is  not 
need — to  tell  /lim — /ic — knows.'* 

For  some  moments  Rene  felt  stunned  and  unable 
to  reply. 

"  Great  Heaven!  "  he  cried,  presently.  "  Surely 
— surely  you — you — child  that  you  are — cannot  be 
a  married  woman.  Tell  me — Dorothee,  tell  me — 
it  is  not  true." 

At  that  moment  Rene  would  have  cheerfully 
thrown  every  family  objection,  every  worldly  con- 
sideration, with  the  remains  of  his  first  love,  to  the 
bottom  of  Lake  Huron,  or  any  other  burial  place, 
for  an  assurance  that  no  other  man  had  a  right  to 
call  Dorothy  his  own. 

"A  married  woman,"  she  answered;  "no,  no, 
not  that;  and  now,  never,  never,  shall  I  be." 

Rene's  mind  was  relieved.  But,  with  his  relief, 
his  family  considerations  returned,  bearing  some 
caution  with  them. 

"  Sister  Dorothee,  you  are  very  young.  Why  do 
you  speak  so?  Your  mind  will  change.  Who  can 
doubt  that  you  will  marry?  " 

"  Ah,  no,  never,  never." 


'lb 


mill 


Miliiift 


± 


^ 


f  9le  St  Sosepb 


i6i 


"  But  why?  Look  at  me,  tell  me  truly,  what 
reason  have  you  to  speak  thus?  Some  day  your 
heart  will  learn  to  love,  and  then " 

She  dropped  her  eyes  and  bent  her  head.  She 
was  troubled  and  lialf  afraid.  This  young  man's 
words  and  tone  were  not  those  of  a  brother.  He 
must  make  no  mistake. 

"  O,  brother  Rene,  it  is  true  I  am  young;  yet  I 
know  whereof  I  speak.  Marriage  is  not  for  me — 
love  is  but  for  once — and  for  all  time." 

Once  more  the  family  considerations,  the  well- 
weighed  obstacles,  were  mentally  consigned  by  the 
young  man  to  any  place  deep  enough  to  hold  them; 
the  agonies  of  unrequited  affection  were  upon  him 
in  new  form.  But  some  hope  lighted  the  gloom. 
It  seemed  plain  from  what  she  had  said  that  mar- 
riage with  one  she  loved  was  impossible;  there 
could  be  no  dishonor  in  an  effort  to  take  the  place 
of  a  suitor  whose  case  was  hopeless.  A  girl  so 
lovely  should  not  be  permitted  to  pine  and  waste 
her  young  life  thus.  He  could  argue  from  experi- 
ence. To  love  but  once,  to  love  for  all  eternity 
was  a  beautiful  and  ennobling  ideal;  one  sang  the 
songs  of  such  love,  one  read  of  it  in  books;  but 
in  life,  who  could  find  it?  In  his  yoiithful  inex- 
perience he  had  believed  in  it.  But  now,  how  was 
it?  Had  he  not  loved  most  deeply,  most  truly, 
and  lived  to  learn  that  one  could  love  deeply,  truly, 
again?    Yet  he  flattered  himself  that  he  was  a  man 


'■•"■"  °"^' 


fcii 


I.V  I! 


# 


162    ube  IRomancc  of  a  Jesuit  /©Isslon 

of  more  than  ordinary  constancy;  so  he  bade  him- 
self be  of  good  cheer. 

He  walked  beside  Dorothy  for  some  time  in 
silence.  He  would  not  distress  her  by  any  denial 
of  the  virtue  of  constancy.  But  he  gave  several 
judicious  sighs  and  looked  pensive. 

"  Brother  Rene,"  she  said  presently,  "  I  may 
trust  you.  I  beseech  you,  repeat  to  no  one  a  word 
that  I  have  spoken." 

"  You  may  indeed  trust  me,  little  sister  Doro- 
thee;   not  one  word  shall  ever  be  told  to  mortal 


ears 


>> 


He  wished  to  hear  more,  but  she  would  not  con- 
tinue the  subject.  She  turned  toward  the  village, 
and  would  talk  of  nothing  but  the  difificulties  in 
managing  the  young  Indians  and  of  domestic 
affairs. 

When  Rene  was  alone  he  recalled  the  jesting  of 
the  young  men  on  the  devotion  of  De  Charolais. 
The  missionaries  had  said  nothing  on  the  subject, 
but  it  was  commonly  believed  that  Leon  had  been 
sent  away  on  that  account.  Was  it  possible  that 
Dorothy  referred  to  a  hopeless  love  for  him?  In 
that  case  he  would  do  her  a  service  if  he  could  win 
her  heart.  True,  De  Charolais  was  not  a  priest, 
he  had  not  yet  taken  any  irrevocable  vows  to  the 
Church;  yet  Rene  had  gathered  that  he  felt  him- 
self bound  by  some  promise  that  he  deemed  irre- 
vocable to  remain  steadfastly  in  the  course  he  had 


I 


f  0lc  St.  Joscpb 


163 


begun,  and  for  which  he  had  evidently  no  inclina- 
tion. Leon  was  firm  and  persistent.  If  he  had 
given  a  promise  he  would  not  break  it,  therefore 
Dorothy's  marriage  with  him  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. Rene  heartily  pitied  him,  for  he  beHeved 
that  he  loved  the  girl  and  had  been  parted  from 
her  by  the  Superior.  Le  Breton  had  heard  that  he 
would  not  even  be  permitted  to  visit  the  new  set- 
tlement on  the  island.  Under  the  circumstances, 
as  any  bond  between  De  Charolais  and  Dorothy,  if 
such  existed,  would  far  better  for  the  sake  of  both 
be  broken,  Rene  felt  that  his  duty  and  his  inclina- 
tions were  at  liberty  to  embrace  each  other. 

But  for  the  time  he  had  no  opportunity  to 
prosecute  his  suit  further.  That  evening  the  Jesuit 
Fathers,  with  a  number  of  soldiers,  traders,  and 
laborers,  landed  on  the  island.  They  had  stripped 
Sainte  Marie  of  everything  that  could  be  moved. 
Then,  lest  it  should  harbor  the  Iroquois,  they  had 
set  it  on  fire,  and  in  an  hour  the  results  of  years  of 
toil  were  consumed.  Near  sunset,  on  the  four- 
teenth of  June,  they  had  descended  to  the  mouth 
of  the  Wye  and  boarded  their  raft.  Though  their 
destination  was  not  far,  their  cumbrous  craft  had 
moved  so  slowly  over  the  water  that  they  had  been 
several  days  on  the  journey. 

The  Fathers  at  once  sought  to  bring  order  out 
of  the  general  confusion.  Their  arrival  Inspirited 
the  despondent  Hurons.    Though  they  had  been 


i.:j 


164    ;rbe  iRomance  of  a  Result  /iMsslon 

weakened  by  lack  of  good  food,  they  set  to  work 
to  hew  and  burn  down  a  portion  of  the  forest,  to 
build  substantial  bark  houses,  and  plant  palisades. 
The  priests  chose  a  favorable  spot,  and  began  to 
clear  the  ground  and  mark  lines  for  a  fort.  To  this 
place  also  they  gave  the  name  Sainte  Marie. 

But  the  energies  of  Rene  le  Breton  were  turned 
in  other  directions.  When  the  Superior  heard  Nia- 
lona's  account  of  the  young  man's  attentions  to 
Dorothy  he  grew  uneasy.  Under  some  circum- 
stances he  would  have  rejoiced  in  Dorothy's  mar- 
riage with  a  worthy  man,  and,  as  far  as  she  was 
concerned,  it  vv^ouid  relieve  the  priests  of  much  re- 
sponsibility. But  her  determined  silence  had  cre- 
ated much  suspicion;  should  Rene  go  to  France 
from  the  mission  with  a  bride  whose  history  might 
bring  reproach  on  the  Le  Breton  name  the  family 
v/ould  be  justly  indignant.  They  would  be  far  less 
averse  to  his  marriage  with  an  Indian  girl.  The 
Indians  were  lords  of  the  forest.  Moreover,  an 
Indian  wife  would  have  no  undesirable  relatives  in 
the  neighborhood  of  France;  T  igland  was  not  at 
such  convenient  distance.  His  marriage  with  an 
English  girl  would  not  be  acceptable  to  his  family; 
she  was  a  heretic,  and  Rene's  people  were  upholders 
of  the  Faith.  If  she  loved  him  she  might  be  led  to 
renounce  her  heresies,  but  the  other  objection 
would  remain.  Rene  was  of  age.  He  could  marry 
if  he  chose.    But  the  Superior  felt  himself  in  duty 


SSSBSSSBi 


Isle  St.  3osepb 


•65 


bound  to  prevent  any  undesirable  alliance.  He  di- 
rected Le  Breton  to  accompany  Hauteroche  and  a 
party  of  Hurons,  with  proposals,  to  the  Neutral 
Nation.  The  expedition  involved  danger,  and 
Rene  could  not  decline  an  honorable  mission.  He 
had  a  picturesque  and  melancholy  parting  with 
Dorothy,  and  the  Superior's  mind  was  set  at  rest, 
in  that  direction  at  least,  for  some  months. 

Meanwhile  the  Frenchmen  worked  energetically. 
Before  winter,  a  square  bastioned  fort  of  solid 
masonry,  with  walls  twelve  feet  high,  rose  in  the 
forest;  it  was  surrounded  by  a  deep  ditch.  Near 
at  hand  there  were  detached  redoubts,  where 
French  musketeers  could  aid  in  defending  the  Hu- 
ron village.  Within  the  fort  were  ouilt  a  small 
chapel  and  houses  for  lodging.* 

The  "'igilance  of  the  soldiers  preserved  the  island 
from  any  Iroquois  attack  through  the  summer;  but 


! 
/ 


*  A  well,  and  the  ruins  of  this  fort  may  still  be  seen  on  the 
southeastern  shore  of  the  island,  a  hundred  feet  from  the  water. 
In  1848,  a  steel  mill  for  making  wafers  for  the  Host  was  found 
in  the  fort,  and  was  removed  to  an  English  museum.  Some 
time  ago,  delegates  from  the  Canadian  Institute  made  an  in- 
spection of  Christian  Island.  The  ruined  walls  were  distinctly 
traced.  Water-washed  stones  and  crumbling  mortar  rose  two 
or  three  feet  above  the  level,  and  were  partly  overgrown  with 
vegetation.  The  relics  of  the  wooden  bastions  at  the  corners 
of  the  palisades  were  also  traceable.  These  remains,  and 
those  of  the  old  fort  on  the  Wye,  are  in  conformity  with  the 
descriptions  in  the  narratives  and  letters  of  the  priests. 


MiniMininiwiiiT-iiirriiir-tiii-iitnitTifmi  irrrrii  niiin 


sss^s^fsm 


I  \ 


1"'^ 


1 66    zbc  IRomancc  of  a  Jesuit  flDission 

Iroquois  scalping  parties  beg^an  to  range  the  neigh- 
boring shores,  killed  some  stragglers,  and  kept  the 
islanders  in  alarm. 


1   : 


^  I 


'  i<  i  i  ■  'J 


i-^i 


II 


It;  • '' 
I*  i;- 


SZBS^nS^H 


XIX 

Ube  Insolence  of  Dauterocbc 

The  frosts  of  late  September  had  touched  the 
trees  and  tinted  the  island  with  many  colors.  At 
a  distance  the  deep  green  of  the  cedars  appeared 
almost  black  in  contrast  with  the  brilliance  of  the 
hardwoods,  the  golden  flame  and  crimson  of  the 
maples — most  beautiful  of  autumn  trees — the  red 
brown  of  the  oaks  and  the  yellow  of  the  beeches. 
The  underbrush  and  creeping  vines,  the  fallen  and 
mouldering  trees,  decked  with  mosses,  lichens,  and 
young  ferns,  were  as  exquisite  in  their  varied  hues 
as  the  canopies  above. 

On  one  of  these  autumn  days  Dorothy  had  wan- 
dered to  an  isolated  valley,  where  she  stood  looking 
into  a  deep  pool  whose  surface,  undisturbed  by  a 
ripple,  reflected  the  woodland  beauty. 

The  stillness  was  broken  by  the  crackling  of 
branches.  She  looked  in  the  direction  of  the  sound 
and  saw  Raoul  Hauteroche  making  his  way  toward 
her.  She  had  not  heard  of  his  return  from  the  ex- 
pedition to  the  Neutral  Nation.  She  would  have 
been  better  pleased  if  he  had  remained  with  that 

people.    But  there  was  one  satisfaction:  no  doubt 

167 


i 


% 


m 


WU 


:  l\ 


1 68   zbc  IRomancc  ot  a  Jesuit  /©tssfon 

Rene  le  Breton  had  returned  also,  and  she  would 
be  glad  to  see  her  adopted  brother. 

Hauteroche's  party  had  arrived  at  the  fort  early 
in  the  morning,  and  when  he  had  delivered  his 
messages,  and  could  steal  away  without  attracting 
attention,  he  started  for  Kishik's  lodge.  He  had 
determined  to  be  the  first  to  meet  Dorothy,  for  the 
Superior  had  detained  Le  Breton. 

Poor  Washaka  had  been  made  happy  for  a  time 
by  the  aHfected  cordiality  of  his  greeting,  but  she 
soon  perceived  his  indifference  to  any  information 
that  did  not  relate  to  Dorothy.  Presently,  when 
he  discovered  that  she  was  not  in  the  lodge,  he  rose 
to  go,  saying  that  he  must  return  to  the  fort. 

"  It  may  be,"  he  said,  lightly,  "  that  the  Superior 
will  send  me  in  command  of  a  party  that  will  bear 
messages  to  the  English  settlements.  Should  that 
be  so  I  would  carry  tidings  to  the  friends  of  Made- 
moiselle Dorothee.  Where  may  I  find  her,  to  speak 
with  her  concerning  this?  " 

"  How  know  I?  "  asked  Washaka,  coldly.  "  She 
wanders  away,  alone." 

Hauteroche  affected  indifference.  "  It  matters 
little.  Father  Ragueneau  v/ill  instruct  me  where 
I  may  find  her  people  and  of  the  message  I  shall 
bear.  I  will  now  return  to  the  fort.  The  men  have 
wrought  diligently  since  we  left.  The  walls  have 
risen  already  to  a  fair  height." 

He  observed  the  disappointment  in  Washaka's 


1'^^ 


»» 


Ube  Insolence  ot  f)auterocbe 


169 


face,  and  made  some  flattering  remarks  that  re- 
stored her  good-humor. 

But  she  distrusted  him.  When  he  went  away 
she  watched  him  through  a  crevice  in  the  lodge 
wall,  and  presently  saw  him  leave  the  path  for  the 
fort  and  walk  in  the  direction  of  the  valley.  Dor- 
othy had  discovered  it  soon  after  her  arrival  on  the 
island,  and  he  knew  it  was  her  favorite  haunt. 

Jealous  misery  came  upon  Washaka;  as  soon  as 
he  had  gone  so  far  that  she  could  follow  him  with- 
out discovery  she  went  after  him  with  stealthy 
steps. 

Before  she  reached  the  entrance  to  the  valley 
she  turned  aside  from  the  path  and  went  to  the  top 
of  the  steep  hill.  From  that  height,  and  hidden  by 
the  heavy  foliage,  she  looked  down. 

Ah,  she  had  divined  truly!  Dorothy  stood  by 
the  pool;  and  presently  she  saw  Raoul  hastening 
toward  her  with  eager  face. 

At  that  moment  there  was  murder  in  Washaka's 
heart.  A  warrior  of  her  tribe  would  not  have 
longed  more  vengefully  to  stand  by  the  dead  body 
of  his  enemy  than  she,  in  her  jealous  fury,  longed 
to  see  the  English  girl's  false  face  white  in  death, 
to  see  the  light  of  Hfe  darkened  in  those  hateful 
blue  eyes.  Ah,  the  treacherous  Dorothy!  Had 
she  not  pretended  to  scorn  the  Indian  girl  who  had 
stolen  the  lover  of  her  friend? — Dorothy  had  told 
Washaka  Rene's  story  of  the  Lovers'  Leap.    Yet 


I70    Ube  IRomance  ot  a  Jesuit  Ai90ion 


If 


ii  < 


her  own  deceitful  heart  had  plotted  against  those 
who  had  befriended  her.  So  poor  Washaka,  with 
her  slighted  love  moaning  and  the  desire  of  venge- 
ance clamoring  within  her,  peered  from  her  height 
with  miserable  eyes. 

When  Dorothy  saw  Hauteroche  her  face  flushed, 
and  he  took  it  as  a  sign  that,  notwithstanding  her 
former  disdainful  attitude,  she  was  pleased  to  see 
him.  He  believed  that  she,  like  all  women  as  he 
understood  them,  was  fickle  and  unstable.  He  had 
resented  her  treatment  of  him,  it  rankled  in  his 
mind;  but  he  was  not  the  less  anxious  to  gain  her 
favor. 

Dorothy  met  him  with  as  much  civility  as  she 
found  possible,  but  her  manner  was  reserved  and 
cold,  and  he  resorted  to  a  plan  to  rouse  her  from 
her  indifference. 

"  I  visited  St.  Matthias  not  long  since,"  he  said, 
and  looked  at  her  keenly. 

Her  manner  changed;  she  asked,  with  much  in- 
terest, "  Did  you  spend  much  time  there?  " 

"  I  saw  Leon  de  Charolais  many  times,"  he  an- 
swered, and  watched  the  effect  of  his  words. 

Washaka  rose  and  moved  along  stealthily,  for 
Hauteroche  and  Dorothy  had  left  the  pool  and 
were  wandering  to  the  heart  of  the  deeply  wooded 
valley.  She  saw  Dorothy's  face  upturned  and 
Raoul  bending  his  head  toward  her.  But,  with 
keenest  listening,  she  could  not  hear  a  word. 


Ubc  Insolence  of  Dautcrocbe        171 

"  De  Charolais  has  changed.  He  is  thin,  he  looks 
older." 

"Ah,  is  it  that  he  labors  with  too  much  dili- 
gence? " 

"  It  may  be,  though  it  was  well  known  he  had 
no  love  for  hard  work  when  he  lived  at  Sainte 
Marie." 

"  Is  it  that  the  mission  is  not  healthful?  Do 
fevers  and  agues  lie  in  the  marshes?  Were  the 
Superior  informed,  it  may  be  he  would  remove 
him." 

"  The  ground  is  high,  no  marsh  is  near  to  send 
forth  agues  and  fevers,  yet  the  Superior  has  re- 
moved him." 

"  Tell  me,  where  is  he  now?  " 

"  He  is  on  his  way  to  join  some  Hurons  on  the 
North  Shore.  They  are  now  encamped  on  an  isl- 
and in  the  bay." 

"  And— when  he  is  so  near— he  will— surely,  he 
will — come  here?  " 

Hauteroche  laughed.  "  Do  you  indeed  believe 
the  Superior  will  permit  that?  Father  Ragueneau 
may  not  be  so  wise  in  the  wisdom  of  the  worid  as 
others  whom  we  know,  but  he  is  not  blind." 

"  Monsieur  Hauteroche,  I  do  not  understand. 
Your  words  are  as  riddles." 

"  And  why  should  I  not  speak  in  riddles  to  one 
who  is  herself  a  riddle  that  the  wisest  of  the  Fathers 
has  been  unable  to  read?     Must  I  speak  more 


I-' 


i     ( 


I 


m">^ 


172   xrbe  "Komancc  of  a  Jesuit  /ftfsstou 

plainly,  with  words  that  you  cannot  fail  to  under- 
stand?" 

"  No,  no,"  she  cried,  shrinking  from  him.  "  The 
hour  is  late.  I  must  haste  to  Nialona.  The  Su- 
perior would  be  displeased  if " 

"  Ha,  ha,"  he  laughed,  rudely.  "  Little  care  you, 
fair  maid,  for  the  Superior's  commands." 

She  turned  from  him  and  tried  to  escape,  but  he 
caug'ht  her  hands  and  held  them  fast. 

Washaka,  on  the  height  above,  flung  herself,  face 
forward,  on  the  ground. 

"  Monsieur  Hauteroche,  release  me,  set  me  free," 
she  cried,  and  tried  desperately  to  wrench  her  hands 
from  him. 

"  Not  yet,"  he  said,  "  not  till  you  tell  me,  Dor- 
othy, why  you  treat  me  with  so  little  kindness." 

"  Are  you  a  coward,"  she  cried,  "  that  you  hold 
a  defenceless  girl  against  her  will?  " 

An  evil  look  shot  from  Raoul's  eyes.  **  Such 
words  come  well  from  you  to  me,"  he  said,  and  his 
grip  on  her  hand  was  cruel.  "  My  family  is  one  of 
the  oldest  in  France;  all  may  read  its  records  and 
learn  that  not  one  of  our  house  has  ever  borne  that 
brand.  But  of  you,  who  knows  anything?  You 
dare  not  reveal  your  name.  Your  life  holds  a  secret 
so  dark  that  you  will  not  bring  it  to  the  light. 
Scorn  should  speak  from  other  lips  than  yours." 

Dorothy,  still  struggHng  to  free  herself,  began 
to  sob. 


c 


Zbc  Insolence  of  'fcauterocbe        173 


Ll 


"  Ah,  do  not  weep,"  he  said,  turning  from  rage 
to  a  softness  that  was  repellent  to  her.  "  You 
angered  me,  I  spoke  in  haste.  Listen  to  me,  Dor- 
othy. Why  do  you  repulse  me  when  1  would  be 
kind  to  you?  Why  do  you  waste  your  life,  your 
loveliness,  in  fruitless  mourning  for  one  whom  you 
will  never  see  again?    But  I " 

"  Never  see  him  again!  How  is  it  possible  that 
you  can  know?  Is  the  ear  of  God  turned  from  mc 
that  He  should  not  hear  my  prayers?  If  it  please 
Him,  He  will,  He  can,  bring  us  together.  If  it  be 
His  will  to  keep  us  asunder  till  our  lives  end,  then  I 
live  alone,  I  suffer  alone,  as  true  to  him  as  I  know 
he  is  true  to  me." 

"  Ah,  fair  maid,  you  have  made  your  confession, 
and  what  will  Father  Ragueneau  say  when  he  hears 
of  it?  You  would  better  pray  Heaven  to  avert  his 
displeasure.  It  would  be  of  a  piece  with  your  pray- 
ers for  a  benediction  on  a  sinful  love." 

"A  sinful  love!  You  know  not  what  you  say. 
It  is  sacred.    It  is  hallowed." 

"  Ha,  ha!  A  sacred  love!  Pardon  my  merri- 
ment, your  words  provoke  it.  Is  it  the  priestly 
vocation  that  sanctifies  it?  " 

"  Monsieur  Hauteroche,  I  say  again,  I  do  not 
understand  you." 

"  You  do  not  understand!  Yet  your  mind  has 
never  been  slow  to  comprehend.  When  I  tell 
Father  Ragueneau  what  you  have  admitted  he  will 
understand." 


*'^' 


h    ! 


il! 


■I 


174   XEbe  IRomance  of  s  Jesuit  /BMssfon 

"  Tell  him  what  you  will,  but  set  me  free.  I  de- 
mand it! " 

"  Yes,  I  will  set  you  free,"  he  said,  changing  his 
tone,  and  drawing  her  to  him.  "  You  shall  be  free 
if  you  grant  me  one  little  favor.  Give  me  but  one 
kiss,  and  it  will  seal  my  lips.  I  w.ill  not  tell  Father 
Ragueneau.*' 

He  bent  his  head  lower,  as  if  to  take  what  he 
asked,  and  in  doing  so  loosened  the  grasp  of  his 
hand.  Suddenly,  in  the  strength  of  her  scorn  and 
terror,  Dorothy  wrenched  herself  from  him  and, 
fast  as  her  feet  would  carry  her,  sped  through  the 
valley  and  up  the  hillside.  The  hill  was  steep  and 
thickly  wooded,  and  she  crept  through  places  where 
Raoul's  larger  frame  could  not  easily  follow.  From 
the  summit  she  looked  down  and  saw  him  standing 
in  a  cleared  spot  of  the  valley. 

"  Monsieur  Raoul  Hauteroche,"  she  cried,  "  tell 
the  Superior  what  you  will.  I  have  said  no  word 
of  which  I  am  ashamed.  And  tell  him  my  last  word 
to  you.  It  is  this:  Raoul  Hauteroche,  unmanly 
man,  I  despise  you;  I  despise  you;  I  despise  you!  " 


U 


XX 

tPdlasbafta  /Caftes  tbe  Cbatoc  ot  Ureacberg 

Hauteroche  had  some  fear  that  Dorothy  might 
seek  an  interview  with  the  Superior,  and  beHeved 
that  his  own  safety  lay  in  preparing  Father  Rague- 
neau  to  discredit  her  story:  su  he  lost  no  time  in 
hastening  to  the  fort  with  his  inforniatioii.  Dor- 
othy's words  and  action  had  stung  his  var>it-.  .uid, 
smarting  frum  the  sting,  he  strode  across  the  /alley 
as  if  he  were  escaping  from  something  that  he 
feared. 

Whvin  Dorothy  had  made  sure  that  he  would  not 
attempt  to  follow  her  siie  threw  herself  on  the 
2:round  and  sobbed  aloud  in  her  hurt  at  the  indicr- 
iiity  that  had  been  offered  her.  She  rubbed  her 
delicate  hand  on  the  ground,  as  if  to  cleanse  it  from 
what  she  felt  to  be  the  contamination  of  his  touch. 
It  was  time  to  go  back  to  the  lodge  to  help  Nialona 
with  the  supper,  but  she  forgot  that,  forgot  every- 
thing but  her  misery. 

After  awhile  she  rose,  walked  to  a  stream  that 
ran  down  the  hillside,  and  washed  her  swollen  eyes. 

«7S 


1 

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mi^^mmmgmfm 


mmmmmmmmmmmmmm'if'if 


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1 76    xTbe  IRomance  ot  a  Srcmilt  /©fssion 

Some  time  before  Dorothy's  escape  from  her 
tormentor  Washaka  had  heard  Nialona  calline  and 
had  answered  the  summons. 

When  Dorothy  arrived  at  the  lodge  Nialona  was 
roasting  ears  of  corn  in  the  coals,  and  Washaka  was 
moving  al)out  in  a  bewildered  way,  as  if  to  help  her, 
but  really  accomplishing  little. 

'*  Nialona,  I  am  'jorry,  again  I  have  arrived  late 
when  I  should  have  1)een  here  to  help  you,"  said 
Dorothy,  penitently. 

"  I  ask  not  help  from  you,"  said  Nialona,  coldly. 
Then  she  added,  "  Go,  go  away  with  Washaka. 
Always  I  must  work,  work,  for  how  do  you  aid  me? 
You  wander  far,  you  forget  there  is  work  to  do. 
And  Washaka,  she  is  as  a  child,  without  under- 
standing. See,  she  has  burned  the  cakes  so  they 
are  black.    Who  would  eat  them?  " 

Dorothy  perceived  that  Washaka  was  unhappy, 
but  she  did  not  connect  her  distressed  appearance 
with  Hautcroche. 

"  Washaka,  come  with  me,"  she  said. 

Washaka  could  hardly  endure  Dorothy's  pres- 
ence, but  she  had  something  to  say;  so  she  turned 
and  walked  on  sullenly,  refusing  to  speak  till  they 
were  far  from  the  lodge. 

"  Washaka,  what  is  it?  "  asked  Dorothy,  pausing 
in  her  walk.    "  Why  do  you  show  me  such  anger?  " 

"  I  answer  not.    You  know." 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  have  not  harmed  you.  For 
what  reason  do  you  treat  me  thus?  " 


sssasSp.,- 


WHasbafta  Cbarges  Zteacbevs       177 


I 


"  It  is  for  me  to  ask,  Why  do  you  treat  me  thus? 
You  came  to  our  lodge,  you  were  sick,  you  were 
without  a  friend.  With  Nialona  I  nursed  you  by 
day  and  by  night.  I  remembered  not  w'hen  I  was 
weary.  I  gave  you  of  my  clothes,  my  food.  I  was 
to  you  as  a  sister.  And  you,  what  have  you  done? 
You  have  been  as  a  thief.  You  have  taken  for  your- 
self that  which  was  mine." 

Dorothy  turned  pale,  then  flushed  angrily.  She 
had  no  idea  to  what  Washaka  referred.  "  A  thief! 
Venture  never  again  to  repeat  that  word.  Never 
have  I  taken  vVhat  was  yours.  You  have  said  you 
were  my  sister.  Would  a  sister  follow  my  steps  as 
"  spy?  Would  a  sister  seek  to  draw  from  me  the 
thoughts  I  would  hide  in  my  own  heart  and  carry 
my  words  to  others?  When  I  awoke  on  my  sick 
bed,  when  I  learned  how  you  had  nursed  me,  how 
the  roof  of  Kishik  had  sheltered  me,  I  desired  to 
help  you,  to  love  you.  I  have  helped.  I  have 
worked  for  you,  for  Kishik,  for  Nialona.  But  to 
love  you!  How  could  I  love  one  who  listened,  who 
watched,  who  repeated,  distrusting  always?  I  have 
tried  to  bear  it,  to  show  no  angc^*;  but  many  times 
have  I  longed  to  hide  myself  from  your  eyes,  from 
the  eyes  of  Nialona,  in  the  water,  deep  down,  or  in 
the  gr?,ve.  Yet  have  I  never  betrayed  you,  never 
have  I  said  to  any  one  a  word  that  would  do  you 
harm." 

Dorothy  paused,  and  Washaka  burst  out:  "  You 


n 


Hi 


'( 


ii'i! 


■■■'■•> 


178   Ubc  IRomancc  ot  a  Jesuit  jfflMssion 

say  you  have'  stolen  nothing.  You  say  you  have 
never  betrayed  me.  Your  v^ord  is  false.  I  sav/  you, 
I  saw  your,  eyes,  the  eyes  of  the  traitor,  looking 
into  his  not  an  hour  past.  I  lay  upon  the  hill  when 
you  stood  in  the  valley." 

"  You  saw  Monsieur  Hauteroche.  It  is  well. 
You  have  seen  with  your  own  eyes  that  he  is  false. 
And  did  you  not  see  how  I  sought  to  escape 
him?  Did  you  not  know  that  I  hated  the  touch  of 
his  hand,  the  words  of  his  lips?  Washaka,  I  have 
done  you  no  wrong." 

She  laid  her  hand  on  Washaka's  arm,  but  the 
Indian  girl  flung  it  off.  "  Touch  me  not.  Take 
your'^elf  far  from  me.  I  would  my  eyes  might  never 
look  on  you  again." 


^SSSSmLf^'-. 


XXI 


Hn  Escape  an^  a  /IDeetino 


Dorothy  stood  where  Washaka  had  left  her. 
She  knew  neither  where  to  go  nor  what  to  do. 
Wa:haka  wished  she  might  never  see  her  again. 
Hauteroche  had  gone  to  make  accusations  against 
her,  and  the  Superior  would  believe  him.  She 
shrank  from  meeting  Hauteroche  again,  yet  she 
might  be  unable  to  avoid  it.  What  could  she  do  to 
guard  herself?  What  place  of  rest  was  there  for 
her? 

Her  eyes  turned  to  a  little  cove  where  her  canoe 
was  stowed.  A  thought  flashed  through  her  mind, 
and  without  deliberation  she  put  it  into  action. 
She  ran  to  the  cove,  drew  out  her  canoe,  and  pad- 
dled swiftly  away.  There  were  few  Indians  on  that 
side  of  the  island,  and,  unless  she  should  meet  some 
fishermen  in  their  canoes,  she  might  be  out  of  sight 
before  any  one  missed  her.  Washaka  would  not 
call  attention  to  her  absence.  Nialona  would  sur- 
mise that  Washaka  had  quarrelled  with  her,  and 
would  say  nothing.  There  was  little  punctuality  or 
order  at  this  time  in  the  Indian  village,  and  that 

was  in  favor  of  her  escape.    Her  one  thought  was 

179 


ii 


■ ) 


t  \ 


! 

i!      If 


1 80   ubc  IRomance  ot  a  Jesuit  /BMssion 

to  speed  away  on  the  water,  somewhere,  anywhere, 
from  her  misery.  She  felt  shelterless  and  friendless, 
and  all  else  was  vague.  She  was  not  seeking  death, 
though  she  did  not  want  life.  She  ^-new  not  what 
she  sought. 

But  out  of  the  chaos  a  thought  took  shape. 
Hauteroche  had  said  that  De  Charolais  was  on  one 
of  the  islands.  She  knew  neither  the  distance  nor 
the  direction,  but  there  was  a  possibility  of  reach- 
ing him. 

The  water  was  rough;  the  wind  drove  her  canoe 
on  without  effort  on  her  part.  In  the  distance  and 
the  fading  light  the  island  was  a  faint  line  against 
the  water,  and  it  would  soon  be  undiscernible.  Be- 
fore long  she  knew  that  she  could  not  go  back.  It 
would  be  impossible  to  paddle  her  light  canoe 
against  that  heavy  sea.  Her  dress  was  wet,  for 
the  waves  had  many  times  dashed  above  the  edge 
of  the  frail  vessel.  It  might  be  swamped  or  over- 
turned.   She  was  in  danger,  but  she  felt  no  fear. 

Darkness  had  come  on,  and  the  island  had  been 
invisible  for  some  time,  when  she  saw  something 
gaining  on  her.  At  first  it  had  been  a  mere  dark 
speck  on  the  waves,  but  it  grew  in  size  as  it  ap- 
proached her.  Perhaps  it  was  an  Iroquois.  Though 
she  had  been  apathetic,  that  thought  startled  her. 
Presently,  through  the  darkness,  she  made  out  the 
form  of  a  canoe,  but  she  did  not  know  whether  its 
occupant  was  a  white  man  or  an  Indian.    Terror 


Bn  Escape  mt>  a  IfbcctinQ 


i8i 


seized  her.  Some  one  was  in  pursuit,  and  she  was 
powerless. 

A  man  shouted  in  Huron,  "  Who  goes  there?  " 
She  thought  it  was  not  the  voice  of  an  Indian,  but, 
in  the  roar  of  the  waves,  she  was  uncertain  and 
made  no  answer. 

The  boatman  came  nearer.  He  repeated  his 
question  in  French,  and  she  knew  the  voice  of  Leon 
de  Charolais. 

''  It  is  I,"  she  cried.    "  It  is  I,  Dorothy!  " 

She  was  in  danger;  perhaps  both  were  in  danger. 
There  was  no  time  for  explanations. 

*"  I  will  pass  you,"  he  cried,  "  and  throw  a  rope 
to  you.  If  you  catch  it  I  will  try  to  guide  you  be- 
yond the  rocks.    We  are  almost  upon  them." 

Had  the  water  been  less  rough  he  would  have 
paddled  close  to  her  and  caught  her  canoe,  but  the 
risk  of  running  into  it  obliged  him  to  try  to  keep 
to  one  side  and  at  a  little  distance.  As  he  passed 
he  threw  a  rope  of  thongs  to  the  girl,  but  it  fell 
within  a  few  inches  of  her  boat;  in  her  effort  to 
reach  out  and  grasp  it  she  nearly  upset  her  tottling 
vessel. 

"  Do  not  try  to  catch  it,"  he  cried  presently. 
"  Watch  for  the  rocks.  We  are  among  them,  and 
some  do  not  rise  above  the  water.  Do  not  fear. 
I  will  bring  my  canoe  near  you,  and  by  some  means 
you  shall  be  safely  landed  on  that  island.  See,  we 
are  near  it,  and  the  water  is  less  deep  here." 


F 

1^  Y 

"        ! 

;■  i 

!  ■ 

•  I 


;i  li 


.  ti 


182    zbc  IRomance  ot  a  Jesuit  /Mission 


The  island  was  near;  but,  so  far  as  Dorothy  could 
see,  there  was  an  almost  precipitous  descent  of  rock 
into  the  water. 

"  There  is  low  land  on  the  other  side,"  said  De 
Charolais.  "  If  it  is  possible,  keep  your  canoe  at  a 
distance  and  round  the  point." 

But  the  waves  drove  the  canoes  toward  the  reef, 
and  there  were  rocks  on  every  side. 

Dorothy's  vessel  more  than  once  grazed  on  a 
rock,  but  at  last  they  passed  the  reef  and  were  with- 
in sight  of  the  beach. 

Suddenly  Dorothy  cried  out,  "  My  canoe  is  fast 
on  the  rock!    I  cannot  move  it!  " 

"  Do  not  move.  Sit  still.  I  will  come  to  your 
aid." 

"  The  canoe  is  broken.    The  water  pours  in." 

"  Cling  to  the  rock." 

"  I  will  try." 

**  Hold  fast.  I  will  land  my  canoe  on  the  beach 
and  swim  to  you.  Do  not  lose  courage.  There  is 
little  danger  now." 

To  Dorothy,  clinging  to  the  point  of  rock,  while 
her  canoe  seemed  to  be  sinking  away  from  her,  min- 
utes lengthened  to  hours,  though  only  a  short  time 
passed  before  De  Charolais  reached  her. 

The  rock  was  only  a  few  yards  from  the  shore; 
and  when  the  young  man  had  landed  his  canoe 
safely  and  thrown  off  his  coat,  he  discovered  that 
the  water  was  shallow  enough  to  permit  him  to 


an  £scape  an^  a  ItcctiaQ 


>83 


wade  out  and  carry  the  girl  ashore.  As  her  strength 
was  almost  spent  it  was  the  safer  way,  and  it  saved 
her  feet,  clad  only  in  light  moccasins,  from  the 
sharp  stones. 

His  attention  was  sc  fixed  on  walking  steadily 
over  the  treacherous,  rocky  bottom  with  his  pre- 
cious burden  that  he  did  not  utter  a  word  from  the 
time  when  he  rescued  her  from  her  perilous  place 
until  he  set  her  in  safety  on  the  beach.  When  he 
had  recovered  his  breath,  his  first  words  were, 
"  Your  clothing  drips  with  water.  I  will  haste  to 
build  a  fire. .  Ah,  here  is  a  blanket  rug  in  my  canoe. 
I  brought  it  lest  I  should  have  to  spend  the  night 
on  one  of  these  islands.  From  it  we  can  make  a 
garment  for  you.  See,  I  will  cut  slits  in  it  with  my 
knife  for  your  arms,  then  you  will  fasten  it  so  it  may 
serve  you  until  your  outer  dress  is  dry.  Wring  the 
water  from  it  while  I  gather  wood  for  a  fire." 

In  truth,  he  was  embarrassed  and  dreaded  the 
explanation  of  her  unlooked-for  appearance.  She, 
too,  was  glad  to  defer  it,  and  when  she  had  envel- 
oped herself  in  the  large  rug,  and  wrung  the  water 
from  her  dripping  garments,  she  wondered  how  she 
should  begin  her  story.  She  had  fastened  her  new 
costume  at  the  waist  with  a  piece  of  rope  of  skin 
that  Leon  had  laid  beside  it,  and  pmned  it  here  and 
there  with  bone  pins  that  the  Huron  boys  had 
manufactured,  when  the  young  man  returned. 
,"  I  have  built  a  fire,"  he  said;   "  it  will  presently 


> 


V\ 


I  !t 


184    zbc  IRomance  of  a  Scewit  /l>iddion 

burn  brightly.  I  will  hang  your  gown  upon  a  tree, 
and  ere  long  it  will  be  dry.    Are  you  chilled?  " 

"  No,  I  thank  you;  I  feel  no  discomfort.  But 
you,  you  are  cold." 

**  No,  my  coat  is  almost  dry,  and  I  have  been 
many  times  obliged  to  pass  hours  with  damp  cloth- 
ing.   I  shall  sufTer  no  harm." 

Dorothy  walked  beside  him  in  silence,  and  he 
said,  presently,  "  I  was  on  my  way  to  your  island 
to  see  Father  Ragueneau.  It  was  necessary.  But 
the  high  wind  came  up,  and  I  was  obliged  to  turn 
back.  I  had  been  provident;  I  have  a  baked  fish 
and  ears  of  corn  with  me.  In  a  little  time  there 
will  be  coals  sufficient  to  roast  the  corn.  Are  you 
hungry?    Have  you  eaten  supper?  " 

"  No,  I  have  taken  no  food  since  noonday." 

"  Have  you,  then,  been  so  long  on  the  water?  " 

"  I  left  the  island  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  sun 
was  sinking." 

"  Why  did  you  do  so?  Did  you  not  know  the 
dai^ger  in  that  light  canoe  on  such  a  sea?  " 

They  had  come  up  to  the  fire.  The  pine  logs 
and  branches  were  blazing  high,  and  he  saw  her 
distressed  expression. 

"  I — ^was  in  misery — it  could  not  be  borne.  To 
stay  there — ah — it  was  not  possible.  To  return — 
it  cannot  be — nevermore  can  I  live  there  again." 

Her  eyes  were  cast  down.  She  could  not  see  the 
perplexity  in  his  white  face,  but  his  silence  re- 
proached her. 


Bn  Escape  an^  a  /Dcetino 


i8s 


« 


Wait — wait  but  a  little  while.  I  am  very  weary. 
I  am  full  of  sorrow.  I — will  tell  you  my  reason. 
You  will  understand." 

He  turned  from  her,  and  hung  her  dress  on  a 
neighboring  tree. 

'*  You  are  weary  indeed,"  he  said,  gently,  "  and 
well  nigh  exhausted  by  lack  of  food.  I  will  roast 
the  ears  of  corn,  and  you  will  sit  by  the  fire  and  dry 
your  moccasins." 

While  he  roasted  the  corn,  and  she  drew  near  the 
fire  to  dry  the  clothing  that  she  had  not  removed, 
she  prepared  pieces  of  bark  to  serve  as  plates,  and 
he  told  her  of  his  adventures  when  he  had  been  lost 
in  the  woods.  He  talked  rapidly  and  with  anima- 
tion; but  each  surmised  the  anxiety  of  the  other, 
and  many  thoughts  were  in  their  minds  while  the 
narrative  went  on. 

While  they  ate,  laughing  because  they  had  to 
pick  up  the  fish  with  their  fingers,  Dorothy  told 
of  the  journey  from  Sainte  Marie  to  Isle  St.  Joseph. 
Neither  referred  to  the  horrors  that  had  preceded 
that  leave-taking. 

When  they  had  eaten  their  meal,  De  Charolais 
rose  and  looked  out  on  the  water.  "  The  waves  are 
less  high,"  he  said,  with  his  face  turned  from  her. 
"  The  wind  is  failing.  In  an  hour  we  may  venture 
out  again." 

Her  voice  was  low  when  she  answered,  "  O,  I 
cannot,  I  cannot  return.    You  will  go  with  Hurons 


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to  the  North  Shore.  With  one  of  their  women  I 
may  find  refuge."  ■*.■  s  ■'< 

He  shook  his  head.  "  No,  no,  that  is  not  pos- 
sible. Trust  me,  tell  me  why  you  dread  to  return. 
Fear  nothing.    Tell  me  all."  .    . 

She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  and  made  no 
answer. 

"  Whether  you  tell  me  or  not,"  he  said,  firmly, 
"  I  must  take  you  to  the  island.  It  is  the  only  way. 
Nowhere  else  could  I  find  a  safe  place  for  you." 

Dorothy  felt  the  change  in  him.  In  manner,  as 
well  as  in  appearance,  he  was  older  than  when  she 
parted  from  him  in  the  spring. 

"  It  is  not  that  I  do  not  trust  you,"  she  answered, 
leaning  her  face  on  her  hands  and  looking  into  his 
eyes  with  a  confidence  in  him  that  made  it  difficult 
for  him  to  maintain  his  assumed  composure. 
"  When  I  left  the  island  I  knew  that  hereafter  it 
could  not  be  a  home  for  me.  I  knew  not  whither 
I  might  drift,  but  when  I  was  on  the  water  I  re- 
membered that  you  were  near.  I  hoped,  I  prayed, 
that  with  you  I  might  find  refuge." 

He  strove  almost  desperately  for  the  outward 
calm,  but  his  face  flushed  at  her  words.  "  Why  did 
you  seek  me?  "  was  the  question  of  his  mind,  but 
he  did  not  utter  it  aloud.  He  said  only,  "  How  did 
you  know  I  was  near?  " 

"  Monsieur — Raoul  Hauteroche  told  me." 

She  almost  hissed  out  his  name. 


an  £scape  an^  a  Aeetino 


187 


"  You  do  not  like  Monsieur  Hauteroche?  " 
"  I  despise  him.    I  have  informed  him  of  that. 
He  is  not  a  man  of  honor.    I — it  is  hard  for  me  to 
say  it — yet  I  must  tell  you.    Then  you  will  under- 
stand why  I  will  not  return." 

"  Did  he  dare  to  treat  you  rudely?  " 
She  dropped  her  eyes,  and  a  blush  covered  the 
fair  face.  "  Yes,  he  was  rude  indeed.  I  was  alone 
in  the  valley  when  he  came  to  my  side.  Many 
months  had  passed  since  I  had  seen  him,  yet  I  could 
not  receive  him  with  friendship.  He  put  to  me 
many  questions,  to  which  I  answered  little.  Yet 
by  threats  that  he  would  inform  the  Superior  of 
what  I  had  said  he  sought  to  terrify  me  so  I  should 
promise  what  he  wished." 

"  The  villain!  "  De  Charolais  drew  himself  up. 
His  face  was  white.  His  eyes  dilated.  "  Tell  me — 
Dorothy — you — promised  him  nothing." 

"  No,  rather  would  I  have  died.  But  he  seized 
me  roughly.  I  struggled  to  be  free;  but  many 
moments — to  me  they  were  as  hours — passed  be- 
fore I  shook  ofif  his  hateful  grasp  and  ran  as  if  for 
my  Hfe.  I  tried  to  put  away  the  remembrance  of 
the  touch  of  his  hand.  I  rubbed  mine  upon  the  grass. 
In  the  canoe  I  dipped  it  in  the  water.  But  yet  I 
feel  it."  She  gave  a  little  shudder,  then  went  on: 
"  On  the  first  day  w'hen  I  saw  that  man,  before  he 
had  spoken  a  word  with  me,  I  shrank  from  him. 
Think  you  that  some  one,  some  guardian  spirit, 


♦ib'< 


H 


ii'-ii 


1 1' 


:' 


1 88    ube  iRomance  of  a  5cmift  flMsslon 

one  it  may  be  who  was  with  us  on  earth  and  loved 
us,  watches  ever  near  and  tells  us — in  what  way  we 
cannot  understand — ^whom  we  may  trust  and 
whom  to  fear?  " 

"The  thought  is  beautiful;  it  is  comforting," 
said  De  Charolais.  "  Tell  me,  did  some  spirit  guide 
bid  you  trust  me?  " 

She  looked  into  his  face,  her  lips  quivered,  and 
her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "  No,  no.  I  came  to  you, 
I  trusted  you — because — "  She  turned  away  her 
head,  and  broke  off  her  sentence  with  a  sob. 

When  she  spoke  again,  she  did  not  raise  her  eyes. 
"  I  have  not  told  you  all.  I  watched  from  the  hill, 
and  saw  Monsieur  Hauteroche  walk  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  fort.  I  had  said  nothing  of  which  I 
was  ashamed.  But  how  could  I  know  what  tale  he 
might  fabricate,  to  which  the  Superior  would  listen, 
believing  all?  I  returned  to  our  lodge,  and  there  I 
found  Washaka.  She  had  seen  us  in  the  valley, 
and  she  did  not  know  that  his  presence  was  hateful 
to  me.  She  called  me  by  names  that  were  hard  to 
bear.  She  said  I  was  a  thief,  a  traitor.  I  tell  you 
this,  for  you  know,  every  one  in  the  palisades  knew, 
that  Monsieur  Hauteroche  once  courted  her;  and 
then — he  forsook  her.  Why  should  she  pine  for 
him,  weak  and  false  as  he  is?  He  did  not  love  her. 
Love  does  not  change  thus." 

She  looked  at  him  intently.  Her  expression  was 
an  interrogation? 


an  £scape  anD  a  HbccUnQ 


189 


He  spoke  words  that  he  regretted  when  they  had 
passed  his  )ips.  His  voice  was  low.  "  What  has 
taught  you  that  love  does  not  change?  " 

She  clasped  her  hands,  and  looked  into  his  eyes. 
"  If  love  is  true,  it  is  for  all  time.  It  comes,  I  know 
not  how;  but  when  it  has  come  it  remains.  And 
love  has  power,  and  many  things  that  seem  as  bar- 
riers, strong,  unyielding,  will  in  time  be  broken 
down,  or  love  will  overpass  them." 

In  her  earnestness,  she  had  risen,  and  drawn 
nearer  to  him.  Her  eyes  glowed,  her  lips  were 
parted;  her  face  was  touched  with  a  beauty  that 
De  Charolais  had  not  seen  in  it  before. 

He  had  risen  with  her.  The  color  flushed  his 
worn  face,  and  his  love  filled  his  eyes  as  he  looked 
down  at  her. 

Why  could  he  not  take  her  in  his  arms  and  tell 
her  that  love  meant  that,  meant  more,  perhaps, 
to  him? 

Why  had  they  been  so  thrown  together?  He  had 
given  his  word  to  the  dead,  and  had  held  his  prom- 
ise sacred.  But,  despite  his  faithfulness,  despite  his 
work  and  striving,  their  courses  had  been  shaped 
so  they  should  meet.  He  had  thought  he  had  con- 
quered; but  now 

He  stood  before  her  almost  motionless,  though 
feeling  surged  within  him,  and  for  moments  the 
silence  was  unbroken.  Then,  something  in  his  face 
startled  her  from  her  spell.  She  grew  pale,  drew 
back,  and  dropped  her  hand^. 


I90   ubc  IRomance  ot  a  Scenit  Obission 

He,  too,  stepped  back,  and  stood  with  down- 
cast eyes.  "  I  will  cross  the  point,  and  see  if 
the  storm  has  abated,"  he  said,  striving  to  speak 
calmly.  "  Lie  by  the  fire;  try  to  get  a  little  rest.  I 
will  keep  watch  by  the  shore." 

"  I  thank  you,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  was  very 
low.   "  I  will  try  to  rest." 


U 


i 


I 


■-1 


I 


I 


i 


XXII 

Uempte^  in  tbe  Mil^erness 

The  stonn  clouds  had  passed.  The  white  rock 
glistened  under  a  clear  sky.  The  starlight  was 
tossed  in  points  of  brilliance  from  the  waves.  There 
had  been  a  heavy  dew  and  the  rock  was  slippery; 
but  presently  De  Charolais  found  a  flat  place,  from 
which  he  could  watch  the  beach  where  they  had 
landed;  but  out  of  sight  of  Dorothy  and  so  far 
away  that  he  would  not  disturb  her  by  his  footsteps. 

He  paced  back  and  forth,  unable  at  first  to  think 
clearly. 

After  awhile,  out  of  the  tumult  of  his  thoughts, 
came  the  warning  that  the  force  of  the  wind  was 
abating,  that  he  must  watch  it,  that,  as  soon  as  he 
could  prudently  venture  on  the  water,  he  must  take 
her  back  to  St.  Joseph,  however  unwilling  s;he  might 
be.  He  believed  that  she  wanted  to  stay  with  him, 
never  to  leave  him  again.  But  he  was  convinced 
that  she  was  a  pure  and  innocent  girl,  ignorant  of 
evil,  without  comprehension  of  the  false  position  in 
which  her  action  had  placed  her.  She  dreaded  to 
return  to  the  reproach  and  suspicion  awaiting  her; 
and  his  strength  yearned  over  her  weakness;  he 


^ 


i 


192    XTbe  IRomance  ot  a  Scmit  /l^i^^fon 


m- 


pitied  and  longed  to  shield  her.  Yet  if  he  could 
take  her  back  soon,  and  prove  that  she  had  con- 
sented to  return,  if  he  could  help  her  to  explain  the 
cause  of  her  rash  venture,  she  would  be  protected 
from  Hauteroche,  and  would  perhaps  be  pardoned 
for  her  recklessness.  He  must  take  her  to  St. 
Joseph  before  morning,  if  possible;  not  only  to  re- 
lieve the  anxiety  of  her  guardians,  but  for  her  own 
sake.  The  Superior  might  refuse  to  believe  his 
statement,  might  fasten  unjust  suspicion  on  both; 
but  he  must  not  shrink;  he  must  help  her  not  to 
shrink  through  fear  of  that.  His  part  was  to  coun- 
sel and  persuade  her  to  take  the  one  right  course. 

Then  his  heart's  longing  cried:  "  She  loves  me. 
She  will  love  no  other.  By  a  mysterious  power  be- 
yond ourselves  we  have  been  brought  together,  and, 
though  we  be  thrust  apart  again,  the  tie  cannot  be 
broken.  With  me,  she  might  be  happy;  she  would 
be  loved  and  cherished.  Separated,  kept  far  from 
me,  she  will  be  miserable,  suspected,  misunder- 
stood." 

But  what  would  his  pleas  avail?  The  Superior 
would  refuse  to  marry  them,  though  he  had  taken 
no  vows  to  the  Church.  He  knew  how  it  would  be. 
He  would  take  her  to  the  fort,  and  in  the  morning's 
dawn  he  would  be  banished,  and,  in  all  probability, 
could  never  look  on  her  face  again. 

Other  thoughts  came.  Doubtless,  there  were  al- 
ready fears  that  she  had  perished.    The  searchers 


<^ 


i 


tIempte^  in  tbe  MiI^erness        193 


4> 


*v 


i. 


must  have  discovered  that  she  had  set  out  in  her 
canoe;  they  must  know  that  on  the  wild  water,  in 
her  frail  craft,  she  could  have  Httle  cbince  of  escap- 
ing death  by  drowning.  It  was  believed  that  he 
was  many  miles  farther  down  the  bay  with  his 
Hurons.  It  had  been  arranged  that  Hauteroche 
should  return  to  him  with  a  message  from  Father 
Ragueneau;  but  an  emergency  had  made  it  neces- 
sary that  he  should  see  the  Superior  himself,  despite 
orders  to  the  contrary.  Therefore,  a  meeting  be- 
tween him  and  Dorothy  would  not  be  suspected. 
Why  should  he  force  her  back  to  her  misery?  In  that 
wilderness  he  might  keep  her  near  him,  loved,  pro- 
tected, cherished,  and  undiscovered.  Why  should 
he  thrust  away  the  joy  held  out  to  them  by  the  in- 
visible hand? 

He  had  by  nature  a  dash  and  fire,  a  love  of  ad- 
venture, that  had  led  him  to  reckless  daring  in  his 
boyhood;  and  he  had  with  much  difficulty  re- 
strained this  spirit  since  his  connection  with  the 
Society  of  Jesus.  The  very  peril  and  adventure  of 
such  a  life  would  add  to  its  zest.  He  sat  on  the 
rock,  possessed,  for  a  little  time,  by  this  new 
thought.  For  many  months  his  life  had  been  but 
a  daily  record  of  monotonous,  uncongenial  tasks, 
and  stern  repression  of  himself.  He  had  given  him- 
self little  leisure  for  thought,  for  thought  drove 
him  to  despondency  or  m.ental  rebellion.  Doubt- 
less his  companions  in  the  mission  had  their  dark 


il 


r. 


W.' 


194    Tlbe  IRomance  ot  a  Jesuit  /I>i0dfon 

hours.  Noel  Chabanel,  scholarly  and  refined,  de- 
tested the  Indian  life;  but  when  the  thought  came 
to  him  that  he  should  procure  a  release  from  the 
work  that  he  abhorred,  and  return  to  congenial 
employment  in  France,  he  believed  the  suggestion 
to  be  a  temptation  of  the  devil,  and  bound  himself 
by  a  vow  to  remain  in  the  Huron  country  until 
his  death.  But  Chabanel's  spiritual  fervor  lighted 
the  darkness  for  him.  De  Charolais  had  no  such 
light.  And  when  he  lost  his  hold  of  the  will 
by  which  he  had  held  his  nature  in  check,  long- 
repressed  nature  for  a  time  had  the  mastery;  all  his 
high  resolves  appeared  lost  in  a  delirious  ecstacy. 
In  imagination,  he  again  bore  the  girl  from  the 
rock,  and  thrilled  to  the  touch  of  the  clinging  arms 
about  his  neck.  He  saw  the  beautiful  eyes  looking 
into  his,  heard  the  music  of  the  voice  that  told  him 
how  she  trusted  him.  The  lig*ht  of  life,  of  love, 
had  come  to  him.  Henceforth  it  would  illumine 
the  darkness  of  the  wilderness.  Ah,  he  would  will- 
ingly and  joyfully  bear  his  wearisome  toil  day  by 
day,  knowing  that  at  its  close  he  should  feel  the 
touch  of  the  soft  hand,  delight  his  eyes  with  her 
beauty,  his  ears  with  her  words!  He  would  go  to 
her  presently,  take  her  in  his  arms,  and  tell  her 
that,  won  by  her  love  and  trust,  he  had  resolved 
to  love  and  protect  her  evermore;  that  he  would 
never  again  permit  her  to  be  misunderstood  or 
harshly  dealt  with;  that  he  would  take  her  to  a 


i> 


i  > 


.«v 


4 


t 


k 


Uempteb  in  tbe  TtOlUberncdd        195 

haven  of  safety,  and  hide  her  from  her  pursuers. 
The  wind  was  going  down,  and  they  must  seek  the 
mainland.  He  knew  a  place  where  she  could  re- 
main undiscovered  and  safe  until  Hauteroche  had 
brought  him  the  message  from  the  Superior.  He 
would  have  to  leave  her  alone  for  a  few  hours, 
while  he  waited  with  his  Hurons  on  their  island  for 
the  orders;  but  she  was  brave;  she  would  trust  him, 
knowing  that  he  would  return  to  her.  Then  he 
would  disguise  her  in  the  costume  of  a  French  boy — 
these  Hurons  with  him  had  never  seen  her — and  she 
would  accompany  his  party  on  the  northward  way. 
If  it  were  done,  it  must  be  done  quickly.  He  must 
rise  and  go  to  her.  "  Mademoiselle  Dorothy,"  he 
would  say,  "  the  night  goes  swiftly.  I  -have  re- 
turned for  you.  We  must  set  out  at  once."  And 
she  would  start  and  tremble,  believing  that  he  in- 
tended to  compel  her  to  return  to  St.  Joseph, 
where  she  would  be  met  by  reproach,  and  placed 
under  continual  guard.  She  would  shrink  from 
him,  but  he  would  put  his  arms  about  her,  and  say, 
tenderly,  "  Fear  nothing,  my  life,  my  love;  I  know 
at  last  that  the  precious  gift  you  have  offered  me 
is  mine  to  cherish,  not  to  put  away.  My  heart  is 
true  to  you  as  yours  to  me;  for  I  never  loved  woman 
before,  and  you  I  loved  from  the  first  moment  when 
I  saw  you.  What  you  have  said  is  true — love 
comes,  we  know  not  how;  but  when  it  comes,  it  is 
for  all  time."     And  she  would  rest  her  trusting 


i\ 


19^    Ube  IRomance  of  a  Sesuft  Ai^eion 


1 


1 1 1 


head  on  his  breast,  and  look  on  him  with  her  gen- 
tle, guileless  eyes,  lie  saw  before  him  the  beautiful 
face,  more  exquisitely  beautiful  because  it  was  so 
innocent  and  pure.  Ah,  innocent  and  pure!  He 
could  not  have  loved  an  evil-minded  woman.  Yet 
what  crime  against  her  trusting  innocence  did  he 
propose? 

The  sin  in  its  blackness  was  revealed  to  him,  and 
he  tried  to  turn  his  eyes  from  the  revelation.  He 
argued  with  himself  that  men  bound  by  vows,  most 
sacred  vows,  men  of  position  and  power,  had  lived, 
were  living,  holding  a  w'hite  shield  before  the  world, 
while  the  under  side  was  darkened  by  the  reflection 
of  secret  sin.  And  he  knew  that  the  shield  was 
deeper  tinged  when  it  reflected  the  guilt  of  one  who 
had  vowed  himself  to  be  a  teacher  of  others.  For 
the  thoughts  of  the  heart  are  the  realities,  and, 
whether  men  will  or  no,  their  inward  truth  or  un- 
truth sends  forth  its  pure  or  poisonous  atmos- 
phere. A  man  professing  a  high  calling  and  living 
in  concealed  iniquity  is  an  emissary  of  the  evil  one 
for  the  destruction  of  souls.  Were  he  to  do  this 
deed,  he  would  destroy  not  only  the  pure  soul  of 
the  girl,  but  even  the  savages  about  him  would  feel 
his  influence  for  ill.  Heretofore,  he  had  tried  to  be 
honest  and  faithful  in  the  life  that  had  been  im- 
posed on  him.  He  had  sought  to  elevate  the  stand- 
ard of  morals  among  his  Indians,  and  had  had  some 
success.    Could  he  ever  dare  to  try  again? 


i 


;^empte^  in  tbc  Mfl^emedd 


'97 


/ 


His  thoughts  went  back  to  his  parting  with  Jean 
de  Brebeuf.  He  saw  again  the  martyred  priest ;  the 
man  who  had  suffered  and  kept  himself  pure.  They 
stood  together  on  the  road  to  St.  Louis;  he  heard 
again  the  earnest  voice  pleading  with  him  to  cut 
off  the  right  hand,  pluck  out  the  right  eye,  to  re- 
sist temptation  manfully,  i.  -  had  given  his  prom- 
ise to  one  who  knew,  with  prophetic  instinct,  that 
it  would  soon  be  a  ppj  iiisc  to  be  licld  doubly 
sacred  because  given  to  the  dead,  ile  had  honestly 
tried  to  keep  it,  to  thrust  hi ;  tcuiptation  from  him. 
But  never  before  had  it  come  to  him  as  it  had  come 
now.  How  could  he,  how  could  he,  put  from  him, 
now  and  forever,  the  love,  the  joy,  that  hlied  him 
and  encompassed  him,  bewildering  his  brain  with 
delicious  madness? 

"  I  trust  you,  my  son."  The  words  seemed  to  be 
spoken  aloud  beside  him — the  words  of  the  man 
who  had  loved  him,  and  who  had  given  up  his  own 
life  in  loyalty  to  his  faith.  But  other  words,  too, 
seemed  to  be  spoken  aloud  to  him,  words  in  a  girl's 
sweet  voice, — words  of  love  and  pleading.  Again 
he  felt  the  touch  of  her  hand  upon  him — the  soft 
touch,  with  its  strange,  terrible  strength  to  hold 
him  to  her,  to  restrain  him  from  putting  her  away. 

With  the  groan  of  a  tortured  spirit,  he  thrust 
the  vision  from  him,  and  threw  himself  face  down- 
ward on  the  rock.  He  cried  for  help  to  Heaven, 
and  his  voice  seemed  to  go  out  into  fathomless 


m 


> 


198    xtbc  IRomancc  of  a  Jesuit  /iMssion 

space,  to  a  region  of  emptiness,  where  there  was  no 
ear  to  hear.  He  was  sinking,  sinking,  calling  for  a 
hand  to  stretch  forth  and  save  him;  but  there  was 
no  such  hand.  His  face  touched  the  dew-wet  rocks, 
his  ears  heard  the  sighing  of  the  wind  and  dash  of 
the  waves;  and,  louder  than  these,  they  heard  the 
siren  voice,  luring  him  to  sin.  These  things  he 
knew;  these  were  realities.  But  the  everlasting 
arms,  the  listening  ear,  the  answering  voice,  of  the 
omniscient,  ever-present  God,  were  but  fables — 
fables  formed  from  fancy,  or  fear,  in  the  heart  of 
man.  For  now,  in  the  hour  of  his  trial,  when  he  ap- 
pealed to  the  heart  of  the  Father  to  sustain  His 
child.  His  weak  and  tempted  child,  that  heart  gave 
no  response.  As  well  might  he  have  appealed  to  a 
stone,  and  he  cried  in  his  despair,  "  There  is  no 
God!"  Mistrusted  by  his  fellows,  his  will  failing 
him — his  strong,  manly  will  in  which  he  had  been 
confident — ^without  faith,  it  was  useless,  useless,  to 
keep  up  the  fight;  and,  presently,  he  would  yield. 
Then  for  a  time  he  lay  on  the  rock,  and  let  his 
thoughts  throng  on  him  as  they  would^  without 
effort  to  put  them  away. 

But,  following  his  cry  of  despair,  he  seemed  to 
hear  another  cry — the  cry  that  went  out  from  the 
darkness  on  Calvary — that  cry  that  has  at  times 
brought  the  Man  Divine  nearer  than  any  other  to 
the  despairing  heart — the  cry  of  the  human,  yet 
divine,  "  My  God,  My  God,  why  hast  Thou  for- 
saken me?  " 


..». 


't 


t^empte^  in  tbe  MU^emess 


199 


i 


The  thought  of  the  lonely  man  of  Nazareth,  the 
man  of  sorrows  and  acquainted  with  grief,  came  to 
the  lonely,  despairing  man,  as  it  never  had  come  to 
him — nay,  never  could  have  come  to  him — before. 
Surely,  that  old,  wonderful  story  must  be  true. 
Could  any  fabrication  so  meet  the  needs  of  man?  In 
that  Man  Divine,  manhood  had  been  consecrated 
and  uplifted,  that  manhood  through  all  ages  might 
be  purified  and  uplifted,  too.  He  had  passed 
through  temptation,  agony,  and  despair,  and  had 
come  forth  victorious,  giving  to  other  tempted, 
despairing  men  the  assurance,  "  Lo,  I  am  with  you 
alway,  even  unto  the  end  of  the  world." 

But  the  young  mean's  faith  was  weak,  and  doubts 
and  questionings  beset  him  again.  He  lay  on  the 
rock,  and  pressed  his  head  against  the  hard  stone, 
as  if  he  could  thus  still  the  tormenting  voices. 
Presently  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  no  longer 
alone.  The  spirit  of  Jean  de  Brebeuf  was  with  him, 
to  comfort  and  sustain  him,  as  at  their  last  meeting 
he  had  promised  he  would  be.  if  permitted  by 
Heaven.  Leon  had  smiled  at  the  stories  of  spirit 
visitants,  of  voices  from  the  invisible,  in  which 
some  of  his  companions  so  devoutly  believed.  It 
may  be  it  was  because  his  nerves  were  in  a  super- 
sensitive condition,  his  imagination  disordered,  his 
reason  no  longer  capable  of  separating  the  real 
from  the  unreal;  but  it  served.  Brebeuf,  his  friend, 
was  beside  him,  and  he  told  him  his  story,  as  to  the 


mmtmm 


200   XTbe  IRomancc  of  a  Jesuit  /ftfsston 


It'll 


living  man,  besought  him  to  pray  with  him,  and  for 
him,  to  Heaven,  that  he  might  have  strength  to 
conquer. 

He  rose  at  length,  with  resolve,  from  the  spot 
where  he  had  cast  himself  in  weakness  and  despair. 
Temptation  beset  him  still;  but  he  felt  in  himself 
the  power  to  overcome  it.  The  pain  of  severing 
with  his  own  hand  the  tie  that  had  drawn  Doro- 
thy to  him  seemed  as  sharp  as  it  had  been  at  any 
moment  of  his  trial;  but  he  knew  that  he  would  do 
it.  She  would  turn  her  appealing  eyes  to  him,  and 
plead  piteously  and  vainly.  It  were  easier  to  pierce 
her  heart  of  flesh  and  dull  the  light  of  her  eyes  for- 
ever than  so  to  wound  her  spirit;  yet  he  must  do  the 
harder  thing.  She  would  misunderstand,  believe 
that  he  was  cruel,  that  he  did  not  love  her;  and  he 
must  bear  it. 

He  would  not  go  to  her  until  he  felt  assured  it 
would  be  safe  to  venture  again  on  the  water.  Then 
he  rose,  and  trod  the  rock  firmly  till  he  reached  the 
place  where  he  had  left  her. 


; 


^mm 


V 


;       V. 


J- 


XXIII 

Dorotbs's  Contcssfon 

Dorothy  had  seen  in  Leon's  eyes  an  expression 
that  she  had  never  observed  in  them  before;  and 
when  he  had  left  her,  and  she  sat  by  the  fire,  a  reali- 
zation of  its  meaning  came  to  her.     Hauteroche 
had  insinuated;  others  had  dropped  hints;  but  she 
had   not   understood.      She   had   associated    De 
Charolais  with  the  priesthood,  and  no  thought  of 
him  as  a  lover  had  ever  occurred  to  her.    She  had 
overheard  a  conversation  between  Caradeuc  and 
Nialona,  when  Caradeuc  had  said  that  Leon  might 
obtain  a  dispensation,  leave  the  Society,  and  marry, 
if  he  chose.     Nialona  had  answered  indignantly; 
but  Dorothy  had  not  understood  that  the  discus- 
sion had  any  reference  to  herself.    Now  she  recalled 
words  regarding  the  reasons  for  Leon's  banish- 
ment.   She  understood  his  embarrassment  in  her 
presence,  in  her  announcement  that  she  had  sought 
him.     Her  face  burned,  she  dropped  her  head  in 
her  hands,  and  wondered  what  she  ought  to  do. 

Presently  she  rose,  took  her  dress  from  the  tree 
on  which  it  hung,  and  held  it  so  close  to  the  fire 
that  it  would  have  burned  had  it  not  been  damp. 

201 


m 


vm 


1'  I )' 


ll 


202    ^bc  IRomance  of  a  Jesuit  fl>isslon 

After  awhile,  though  it  was  far  from  dry,  she  put  it 
on.  Then  she  sat,  looking  into  the  fire  and  think- 
ing, until,  spite  of  anxious  thought,  her  head 
drooped  and  she  dozed. 

When  Leon  returned,  he  found  her  sleeping. 
As  she  lay  near  the  fire,  her  head  resting  on  her 
arm,  she  looked  so  pathetically  young,  so  childlike, 
that  he  dreaded  to  awake  her,  to  give  his  hard  sen- 
tence. He  wondered  if  he  could  command  his 
voice,  his  eyes,  so  they  should  not  betray  his  secret 
— if  he  had  not  already  betrayed  it. 

As  he  watched  her,  he  remembered  that  she  had 
said  that  Hauteroche  was  not  a  man  of  honor;  yet 
he,  the  man  she  had  trusted  as  a  friend,  had  medi- 
tated a  deeper  wrong  against  her. 

She  smiled  in  her  sleep,  her  lips  parted,  and  she 
murmured  something  he  could  not  hear;  but  there 
was  a  joy  on  her  face  he  had  never  seen  on  it  in  its 
waking  time. 

He  must  rouse  her.  To  watch  her  thus  would 
unman  him. 

"  Dorothy,  Mademoiselle  Dorothy,"  he  called; 
"  wake,  it  is  time  to  rise." 

She  sat  up,  gazed  about  her,  and  looked  bewil- 
dered. 

"  Ah,"  she  said  presently,  "  I  had  forgotten  this 
island.    I  was  far  away." 

She  had  not  been  dreaming  of  him! 

**  I  was  sorry  to  disturb  you,  for  I  know  well  you 


^i^i^^^^^ 


S)orotb)?'d  Contession 


203 


It 


need  more  rest,"  he  said,  commanding  his  voice  as 
well  as  he  could.  "But — the  wind  has  gone  down, 
and — we  may  venture  to  set  forth.  You  may  rest 
in  the  canoe.  It  is  large.  I  will  spread  the  rug  so 
it  will  be  a  soft  couch." 

He  had  feared  she  would  make  a  pitiful  plea;  but 
she  did  not  say  a  word;  her  face  flushed  and  paled; 
he  thought  she  would  sob  presently;  it  would  be 
harder  to  resist  the  appeal  of  her  tears  than  of  her 
words. 

He  tried  to  justify  himself.  "  Do  not  think  I 
have  no  pity  for  you,"  he  said  brokenly.  "  Ah,  I 
know  your  life  is  lonely;  that  you  have  many  hard 
things  to  bear.  Yet,  knowing  all,  I  must  take  you 
back.  Some  day,  w*hen  you  are  older,  you  will 
know  I  had  to  do  it  for  your  sake.  But,  though 
Father  Ragueneau  is  quiet  and  appears  stern,  he 
has  a  kind  heart.  I  believe  he  will  not  reproach 
you.  And,  most  surely,  he  will  protect  you;  do  not 
fear  that  Hauteroche  will  dare  to  vex  you  again." 

She  answered  quietly,  "  You  are  right.  I — knew 
not  what  I  did.  I  will  go  back,  I  will  bear  what- 
ever may  come." 

Her  calmness  surprised  him;  she  appeared  to 
have  grown  older  since  he  had  awaked  her. 

"  I  will  make  ready  the  canoe.  Then  do  you  fol- 
low me  to  the  beach." 

"  No,  stay  but  a  little  time;  I  will  tell  you  all." 

"  Not  now,"  he  said,  nervously,  fearing  to  listen 


1 


204  Ube  IRomnnce  ot  a  Jesuit  /Didsiott 


I  ti 


fi 


i 


to  her  heart's  confession.     "  We  must  make  no 
delay.    When  we  have  returned  I  will  hear." 

"  The  Superior  will  not  suffer  me  to  speak  with 
you." 

"  On  the  water,  as  we  journey  back,"  he  sug- 
gested. While  he  paddled  the  canoe,  and  in  the 
darkness,  he  might  listen  to  a  part  of  her  story, 
might  prevent  her  making  any  admissions  that  in 
later  years  she  would  regret.  Yet  would  it  not  be 
sweet  to  hear  from  her  guileless  lips  her  words  of 
love  for  him?  His  manliness  forbade.  He  would 
protect  her  against  herself. 

She  insisted,  "  Neither  on  the  island  nor  on  the 
water;  but  here.  It  is  right  that  I  should  tell  you. 
It  is  your  rig'ht  to  know  the  truth.  I  trust  you.  I 
will  tell  you  of  my  past  life.  Promise  me  but  one 
thing,  promise  that  you  will  never  speak  of  it  to  any 
one  on  earth." 

He  was  not  a  priest  to  hear  confessions;  yet  he 
believed  he  was  justified  in  giving  the  promise. 
He  was  confident  that  her  story  could  reveal  noth- 
ing that  would  compromise  her. 

"  I  promise,"  he  said.  "  You  may  trust  me. 
Without  your  permission  I  will  never  repeat  it." 

"  Sit  there,"  she  said,  pointing  to  a  log  by  the 
fire,  at  a  httle  distance.  She  had  assumed  direc- 
tion, though  hitherto  she  had  appealed  to  him  to 
tell  her  what  she  should  do. 

When  they  were  seated,  she  was  silent  for  a  few 


I 


H)orotb)?'0  Contcsston 


205 


ir 


h 


I 


moments,  and  her  face  was  very  pale  when  she  be- 
gan her  story. 

"  I  told  you  that  when  the  Indians  attacked  us 
I  was  separated  from  my  companions  and  lost  in 
the  forest.  That  was  true,  but  it  was  not  all  the 
truth.  In  the  fright  and  confusion  I  escaped  from 
those  who  called  themselves  my  guardians.  So 
desperate  was  I,  that  though  I  knew  I  might  fall 
into  the  hands  of  the  Indians,  that  wild  beasts 
might  devour  me,  or  that  I  might  perish  from  hun- 
ger and  cold,  I  would  have  welcomed  death;  though 
I  was  afraid,  O,  terribly  afraid! "  She  paused  and 
gave  a  little  shudder.  "  I  had  one  hope,  the  hope 
that  a  white  settlement  was  at  hand.  You  know 
that  hope  was  not  in  vain,  and  how  I  found  my 
refuge. 

"I  have  told  you  that  those  in  whose  care  I  had 
been  placed  had  no  love  for  me,  that  they  were 
stern  and  hard.  But — there  was  one  with  them,  a 
man  of  more  than  middle  age,  one  who  was  like- 
wise stern  of  visage.  I  think  not  that  he — loved 
me;  yet — he  desired  to  make  me  his  wife." 

She  stopped  and  bent  her  head;  her  face  was  suf- 
fused with  color.  "  I  tell  you  this  because  I  will 
tell  you  all,  though  I  would  fain  forget  it.  He  had 
spoken  to  those  who  called  themselves  my  guar- 
dians, and  they  would  not  heed  my  pleas.  He  was 
immoved  when  I  told  him  I  loved  him  not;  my 
guardians  were  unmoved ;  they  repeated  that  when 


m 


n,: 


I 


k  i 


206   zbc  IRomance  of  a  Jesuit  Aission 

we  should  arrive  at  a  settlement  and  find  a  minis- 
ter, I  must  be  wedded  to  him.  When  it  was  possi- 
ble, I  avoided  his  presence;  but,  together  in  the 
wilderness  as  we  were,  it  was  not  always  possible; 
yet  if  he  dared  to  lay  his  hand  on  mine,  I  drew  it 
away  in  anger;  then  came  there  on  his  face  a  grim 
smile  that  filled  me  with  dread,  and  he  said,  *  Do  as 
you  will  now,  but  my  time  will  come;  vVhen  you  are 
my  wife,  you  must  obey.'  So  when  word  came  that 
we  approached  some  settlement  of  white  people,  I 
fell  into  despair;  one  hope  only  came  to  me,  per- 
chance the  strangers  would  protect  me;  but  how 
knew  I  what  tale  they  would  tell  of  me;  so  the 
minister  would  be  persuaded  to  wed  me  to  that 
man  whether  I  would  or  no.  I  fled.  Were  it  in 
your  power,  would  you  give  me  to  their  hands 
af  ain? '' 

"  Far  be  it  from  me!  I  would  protect  you  against 
them  all." 

"  Ah,  well  I  know  you  would.  But — the  Superi- 
or, he  would  believe  that  duty  called  him  to  seek 
the  man,  and  give  me  up;  therefore  I  have  told  him 
nothing.  He  knows  not  where  to  seek  my  guard- 
ians. At  Sainte  Marie,  I  was  often  in  terror  lest 
they  discover  me;  but  I  have  ceased  to  fear  it.  I 
know  not  what  has  been  their  fate.  I  trust  they 
escaped  the  Indians,  and  found  the  country  of  the 
English." 

"  You  might  safely  have  told  the  Superior.    He 


i 


I 


S)orotbi?'d  Contessfon 


207 


i 


■' 


would  not  permit  you  to  be  made  a  wife  against 
your  will,  if  he  could  protect  you.  In  his  eyes,  it 
would  be  a  sin." 

She  shook  her  head.    "  I  dare  not  tell  him." 

She  did  not  speak  again,  and  Leon  asked,  "  Shall 
we  set  forth  now?  " 

"I  have  not  told  you  all.  I  loved  not  that  stern 
elderly  man;  yet  had  he  been  young  and  comely,  I 
had  no  love  to  give  him.  In  England,  cruel  hands 
divided  me  from  one  who  had  all  my  heart ;  and  so 
long  as  I  live  he  will  have  my  heart,  though  I  never 
behold  him  again." 

She  dropped  her  eyes,  but  they  seemed  irresisti- 
bly drawn  to  Leon,  and  she  looked  up. 

His  face  was  ghastly  white  and  drawn.  "  What 
is  it?  "  she  cried.  Then  she  would  have  recalled  the 
words,  for  she  understood  that  she  had  wounded 
him  sorely. 

"  Leon,  my  Brother  Leon,"  she  said,  with  a  sob 
in  her  voice,  "  I  tell  you  because  as  a  brother  you 
are  dear  to  me,  as  a  brother  I  trust  you." 

He  did  not  answer.  He  appeared  stunned,  and 
she  went  on,  hardly  knowing  what  to  say.  "  Mon- 
sieur Rene  le  Breton  begged  me  to  look  on  him  as 
a  brother,  and  I  consented.  Yet  he  is  not  as  you 
are.  He  is  but  a  frivolous  youth.  I  have  told  him 
nothing.  But  to  you,  my  Brother  Leon,  I  lay 
bare  my  heart." 

He  forced  himself  to  reply,  "  Tell  me  all.  Why 
did  they  part  you?  " 


V 


'  a 


'I 


I    ■! 


I 


208    ube  IRomance  ot  a  Jesuit  ADfsafon 

"  I  will  go  back  to  days  of  my  childhood.  I 
lived  in  a  pleasant  house,  in  the  midst  of  a  sweet 
garden.  I  was  a  happy  child,  and  they  whom  I 
called  father  and  mother  reared  me  with  such  ten- 
der care  I  knew  not  that  they  had  no  living  child. 
In  a  graveyard  near  by  was  a  marble  that  bore  the 
name  of  their  infant  daughter.  I  thought  of  her  as 
my  sister.  My  mother  told  me  I  had  come  to  her 
after  Elizabeth  died.  One  day  my  father — I  can 
call  him  by  no  other  name — was  brought  home  to 
us  hurt  unto  death.  He  lived  but  a  few  hours,  and 
before  the  morning  light  my  mother  had  followed 
him.  They  who  came  to  our  home  said  it  was  well 
that  she  was  with  him.  But  how  could  I  say  those 
words?  I  had  loved  them,  and  I  was  desolate. 

"  His  sister  came.  I  had  called  her  Aunt  Ellen; 
but  it  had  seemed  to  me  at  all  times  she  did  not  love 
me.  She  wept  for  him,  but  she  said  no  words  of  ten- 
derness to  me.  If  I  wept,  if  I  clung  to  the  still 
forms  of  those  whom  I  had  lost,  it  angered  her;  she 
sent  me  away,  or  said  strange  words  of  me  that  I 
did  not  then  understand. 

"  On  the  day  when  they  were  laid  to  rest  I  was 
bidden  to  a  room  where  I  found  some  grave  men 
assembled,  and  my  Aunt  Ellen  was  with  them. 
Then  they  told  me  that  no  will  of  my  father's  could 
be  found,  that  my  aunt  had  inherited  everything; 
that  I  had  nothing  of  my  own ;  but  that  in  her  good- 
ness she  would  provide  for  me;  that  she  would  send 


/  4 


i 


•( 


2)orotbp*0  Conteaston 


209 


me  to  a  school.  And,  indeed,  it  pleased  me  better 
to  know  that  I  should  not  live  with  her.  Then  the 
thought  came  to  me  that  I,  my  father's  own  child, 
was  nearer  to  him  even  than  his  sister.  Why  should 
she  possess  everything?  And  I  put  the  question 
in  words. 

"  Then  my  aunt  answered,  sternly,  *  You  were  no 
child  of  his  nor  of  hers,  yet  they  reared  you  and 
gave  you  of  the  best.  Is  this  your  gratitude  that 
you  reproach  them  because  they  have  left  you  no 
fortune? ' 

"  I  could  not  speak,  but  I  looked  at  the  grave 
men,  and  they  confirmed  her  words.  They  said 
doubtless  my  father  had  not  foreseen  that  his  life 
would  be  thus  taken  from  him,  or  he  would  have 
made  provision  for  me,  and  that  his  worthy  sister, 
knowing  this,  would  have  a  care  that  I  should  lack 
nothing,  though  I  had  no  lawful  claim  upon  her. 
She  cried  out  that  I  should  at  the  least  give  her  a 
word  of  thanks.  I  could  not  speak  that  which  I 
felt  not,  and  my  lips  were  dumb. 

"  I  looked  from  one  to  another,  and  their  eyes 
would  not  meet  mine.  It  may  be  that  they  grieved 
for  me.  I  saw  a  tear  on  the  face  of  one  who  sat 
near  to  me,  and  I  heard  his  words,  spoken  low, 
*  Alas,  poor  maiden,  a  grievous  cross  indeed  hath 
been  laid  upon  thee.* 

"  There  came  to  my  memory  words  and  looks  of 
which  I  had  thought  little  while  my  father  and 


1 


fi-i  , 


I'    I 


!i 


.11 
■■lit 


I 


'I       I 


r     'I 


1       ! 


210    zbc  IRomnnce  of  a  Jesuit  Aiddion 


mother  lived;  I  recalled  a  day  when  Aunt  Ellen  had 
seeined  to  reprove  my  mother,  and  had  said  in  my 
hearing,  '  You  fail,  Elizabeth,  in  your  duty.  In  a 
day  to  come,  mark  me  well,  the  child  will  hear  the 
truth  from  other  lips.* 

"  The  place  to  which  they  gave  the  name  of  school 
deserved  not  to  be  so  called.  The  teacher  in  whose 
care  I  was  placed  but  seldom  taught  me  a  lesson. 
In  the  house  with  us  lived  but  one  old  woman  ser- 
vant and  a  girl  of  my  own  age.  She  was  said  to  be  a 
pupil  with  me,  and  we  spent  much  time  together. 
She  talked  to  me  of  lovers,  of  fine  dresses,  and  of 
many  things  of  which  I  was  ignorant.  My  mother 
had  educated  me  at  home,  I  had  associated  little 
with  others  of  my  years;  and,  in  truth,  as  Emily 
told  me,  I  knew  nothing  of  the  world.  Our  teacher 
knew  little  of  the  books  we  read — wc  had  but  few 
— or  of  our  conversation;  our  table  was  scantily 
spread,  and  our  clothing  was  neglected;  but  she 
never  spoke  to  us  harshly,  and  for  that  I  was  thank- 
ful. My  mother's  words  had  been  so  mild  that  I 
greatly  dreaded  a  harsh  tongue.  We  spent  much 
time  in  the  fields  that  lay  about  the  house,  and  had 
it  not  been  that  I  longed  continually  for  my  par- 
ents, my  life  had  not  been  unhappy." 

She  stopped  abruptly.  She  had  not  intended  to 
give  so  many  details;  but  her  perception  of  Leon's 
distress  at  the  mention  of  her  lover  induced  her  to 
defer  a  return  to  the  subject.  Presently  she  at- 
tacked it  boldly. 


Borotbi?*0  Confession 


211 


ii 


:\ 


"  Then  came  that  one  on  whose  face  I  had  looked 
but  once  ere  I  loved  him.  1  saw  him  many  times; 
he  Hved  near  by ;  and  soon  he  told  me  of  his  love  for 
me;  and  I  was  comforted  in  my  loneliness.  Yet  in 
this  we  both  did  wrong;  our  meetings  were  by 
stealth;  I  said  no  word  to  my  teacher.  I  told  her 
no  falsehood;  I  only  held  my  peace.  But  for  that  sin 
I  have  many  times  gone  on  my  knees  in  penitence. 
When  my  mother  lived,  I  hid  nothing  from  her. 
There  came  a  day  when  I  was  summoned  to  the 
house,  and  in  the  sitting-room  I  found  my  teacher, 
and  he  whom  I  loved  was  there,  and  beside  him 
were  two  strangers,  whom  I  afterward  discov- 
ered to  be  his  parents,  and  his  face  was  pale  and 
sad. 

"  My  teacher  upbraided  me  bitterly.  She  said  I 
had  lied  and  deceived  her,  and  that  she  had  had  no 
part  in  our  meetings,  and  was  guilty  of  no  wrong. 
But  he  came  to  my  side,  and  said  the  wrong,  if 
wrong  there  were,  was  wholly  his  own;  that  he  had 
urged  me  to  keep  silence  when  I  would  have 
spoken.  And  that  was  true;  but  never  would  I 
have  said  it.  Then  came  in  my  aunt  hurriedly. 
They  had  sent  for  her,  and  she  had  set  forth  in 
haste.  And  she  upbraided  me  bitterly,  for  she  said 
I  had  caused  her  name  to  be  connected  with  my  ill 
doings,  of  which  she  had  no  knowledge.  She  said 
I  was  no  kith  nor  kin  of  hers.  And  she  spoke  evil 
words  of  the  mother  who  gave  me  birth,  and  of 


312  Zbe  IRomance  of  a  Jesuit  Aission 


!•: 


I 


\\h 


I  w 


whom  I  had  known  nothing.  But  I  learned  after- 
ward that  neither  knew  she  anything;  for  I  had 
been  laid  at  the  door  of  the  parents  who  reared  me, 
with  a  sum  of  money  and  goodly  clothing;  and  with 
no  word  save  this,  written  in  a  fine  hand,  *  Her 
name  is  Dorothy.*  And  thereafter  no  search  had  re- 
vealed anything  concerning  her.  With  all  my  heart 
I  believe  that  she  was  a  true  and  saintly  woman, 
led  by  sore  extremity  to  abandon  her  child,  and 
that  death  took  her  away  ere  she  could  seek  me 
again.  Thus,  too,  does  Godfrey  believe,  for  he  as- 
sured me  of  it  with  tender  words.  When  my  aunt 
spoke  thus,  I  would  have  fallen  in  a  swoon  had  not 
Godfrey  caught  me  in  his  arms;  and  thereafter  he 
stood  with  his  arm  about  me,  as  if  to  shield  me. 
His  parents  appealed  to  my  aunt  to  remove  me  far, 
and  spare  them  the  grief  and  shame  of  beholding 
their  son  united  in  marriage  to  one  whose  birth 
would  bring  a  scandal  on  their  house.  And  she 
answered  that  they  need  not  fear,  she  would  remove 
me  far,  indeed.  They  said  he  lacked  some  months 
of  his  coming  of  age,  and  must  obey  their  will. 
They  would  have  taken  him  away,  and  my  heart 
was  like  to  break.  But  he  turned  to  his  mother, 
and  pitifully  besought  her  to  give  him  the  grace  of 
a  few  words  with  me  alone;  and  to  that  she  con- 
sented. We  went  apart  to  a  room  adjoining,  and 
he  held  me  in  his  arms,  and  pressed  kisses  on  my 
face,  and  vowed  that  until  death  he  would  be  true 


\ 


S)orotbs'0  Contcasfon 


213 


to  me,  that  he  would  seek  me  the  world  over,  and 
never  would  he  be  forced  to  wed  another;  and  that, 
too,  I  promised  him.  The  time  was  but  short  until 
his  mother  entered  and  summoned  him;  then  with 
a  groan  that,  as  it  were,  rent  his  heart,  he  left  mc, 
and  I  fell  to  the  ground  as  one  dead." 

She  broke  ofT,  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  again, 
and  shook  as  if  with  sobbing;  but  her  eyes  were  dry. 
When  she  raised  her  head,  Leon  sat,  white  and  still. 
She  began  to  speak  rapidly.  "  There  is  little  more 
to  tell.  My  aunt  took  me  away,  and  placed  mc  on 
that  day  with  those  who  carried  me  across  the  sea. 
I  pleaded  with  her  not  to  put  the  sea  between  us, 
but  she  would  not  heed.    The  rest  you  know." 

Yet  Leon  made  no  answer. 

"  Leon,  Brother  Leon,"  she  cried,  piteously, 
"  have  you,  too,  turned  from  me?  I  love  to  call  you 
Brother  Leon.  In  name,  as  in  other  things,  you 
remind  me  of  him.  His  name  was  Godfrey  Lyon 
Dermount,  and  I  called  him  *  Lion,'  because  he  was 
jtrong  and  brave.  That  was  always  my  name  for 
him.  Brother  Leon,  I  have  done  many  thoughtless 
acts;  but  grievously  have  I  sorrowed  for  them  all. 
Think  not  evil  of  me.    I  have  meant  no  wrong." 

"  No,  little  Sister  Dorothy,  I  have  not  turned 
from  you;  nor  will  I  so  long  as  I  live.  You  have 
called  me  brother  and  friend,  and  that  will  I  be  to 
you  always.  And  now  let  us  haste  to  the  island, 
for  the  night  goes  fast.*' 


1 


i!' 


If  I 
li 


214   Ubc  IRomance  of  a  Jesuit  Afssion 

"  And  you  have  promised  you  will  keep  what  I 
have  given  you  within  your  own  heart.  You  will 
repeat  no  word  of  it  to  the  Superior." 

"  Not  one  word,  except  you  permit  me;  yet  it 
were  better  for  you  to  trust  him." 

"Ah,  no,  I  cannot,  I  cannot;  to  no  heart  but 
yours,  my  Brother  Leon,  could  I  have  laid  bare  my 


own. 

As  they  went  to  the  boat,  he  asked  her,  "  And 
your  own  name,  what  is  it?  " 

"  Have  you  forgotten  that  I  have  no  name?  The 
name  I  bore,  the  name  of  those  whom  I  had  called 
m^  father  and  mother,  I  may  not  disclose,  even  to 
you,  for  on  the  day  when  my  Aunt  Ellen  gave  me 
into  the  hands  of  those  who  took  me  from  my  own 
land,  she  forced  me  to  take  a  solemn  vow  that  I 
would  not  so  much  as  mention  that  name,  nor  ever 
permit  myself  to  be  called  by  it,  so  greatly  she 
feared,  thus  she  told  me,  that  I  might  again  bring 
discredit  upon  her.  She  made  me  take  also  a  vow 
of  silence  concerning  all  my  history,  and  until  this 
moment  I  have  kept  it.  To  no  ear  but  yours,  my 
Brother  Leon,  have  I  told  it,  and  to  you  it  is  in 
sacred  confidence.  I  had  not  meant  to  disclose  it, 
even  to  you;'but " 

He  had  stooped  to  lay  the  rug  for  her  in  the  boat. 
He  was  glad  that  his  face  was  turned  from  her, 
that  she  should  not  see  the  color  that  rushed  over 
it. 


I 


I 


iL 


H)orotbi?*0  Confession 


215 


He  understood  why  she  had  told  him,  had  broken 
her  word  because  she  had  read  his  love  for  her, 
and  would  not  deceive  him. 

"  They  called  me  Dorothy  Mill,"  she  said;  "  but 
it  was  not  pleasing  to  me;  it  was  not  my  own;  until 
I  learn  what  name  is  mine  by  right,  I  will  be  known 
only  as  Dorothy." 


J 


1 


I 


i 


n 


1 


\\l 


i 


h  \ 


m  1 


» ^ 


l    V 


ii 


,1  iri 


IS'!' 


^1 


Km. 


XXIV 

Zbc  IRetutn  ot  tbe  Man^eter0 

They  spoke  few  words  on  their  homeward  way. 
Dorothy  lay  In  the  canoe  on  the  rug  that  Leon  had 
arranged  for  her,  and  when  he  had  passed  the  dan- 
gerous channels,  he  paddled  on,  and  let  his  gloomy 
thoughts  have  their  way.  His  love  was  selfish  yet. 
Until  he  knew  her  story,  the  bitterness  of  parting 
had  been  softened  by  the  belief  that  she  loved  him; 
a  sweet  grief  indeed  compared  with  his  dcsolate- 
ness  when  he  heard  that  another  had  her  heart.  In 
this  thought  all  others  were  lost  for  the  time;  the 
Superior  might  accuse  him  of  disobedience,  of  de- 
ception, might  refuse  to  listen  to  his  explanation; 
he  cared  not. 

It  was  long  past  midnight  when  they  drew  near, 
but  lights  were  gleaming  through  the  trees;  peo- 
ple were  moving  about,  apparently  in  search  of 
Dorothy. 

Leon  heard  the  sound  of  a  paddle,  and  a  canoe 
came  round  a  point  of  land.  In  the  darkness,  he 
did  rot  recognize  the  boatman,  but  when  they  were 
in  sight  Hauteroche  cried,  "  Who  goes  there?  " 

2X6 


^) 


Cbe  Keturn  of  tbe  Manftcrers       217 


I 


"  It  is  I,  Raoul  Hautcroche,"  answered  Leon 
haughtily. 

"  Have  you  seen  aught  of  Mademoiselle  Doro- 
thy? " 

"  Mademoiselle  Dorothy  is  here  and  safe.  We 
seek  the  Superior.    Where  may  we  find  him?  " 

"  Mademoiselle  Dorothy  returns  with  you,  and 
you  st-k  the  Superior,"  retorted  Hauteroche  in- 
solently. "  It  were  better  for  you  to  hide  from  him, 
for  you  will  get  but  a  sorry  reception.'* 

"  I  have  no  cause  to  hide,  Raoul  Hauteroche,  but 
I  doubt  not  you  will  find  reason  to  avoid  his  pres- 
ence when  he  has  heard  what  I  have  to  relate  of 
you." 

^  When  he  had  spoken  the  words,  he  regretted 
his  thoughtlessness;  what  he  had  said  might  serve 
to  bring  Hauteroche's  wrath  on  Dorothy,  who 
neither  moved  nor  spoke. 

^^  Other  canoes  came  up,  and  Rene  le  Breton  cried, 
"  Have  you  brought  word  of  her?  " 

"She  has  returned  with  the  worthy  Leon  de 
Charolais,"  jeered  Hauteroche. 

Le  Breton  paddled  quickly  up.  "  Is  she  living? 
Is  she  safe?  "  he  asked  anxiously. 

Dorothy  sat  up.  "  Yes,  Monsieur  le  Breton,  I 
am  safe;  I  am  unharmed,  save  for  the  waves  that 
dashed  over  my  canoe;  yet  I  should  have  perished 
had  not—"  she  was  about  to  say  "  Brother  Leon," 
but  hesitated.     Then  she  remembered  that   the 


r 


't 


II  ti» 


V 


2iS    ubc  IRomance  ot  a  Result  AMsslon 

Hurons  and  the  boys  always  addressed  him  as 
Brother  Leon  de  Charolais,  and  she  went  on,  "  I 
should  indeed  have  perished  on  the  water  had  not 
Brother  Leon  de  Charolais  come  to  my  rescue." 

'*  And  how  came  it  that  the  worthy  Brother 
Leon  de  Charolais  was  so  near?  "  demanded  Haute- 
roche. 

"  I  was  on  my  way  hither  with  tidings  for  the 
Superior,"  said  Leon,  addressing  Rene.  "  It  was 
dark,  the  wind  was  high,  and  the  water  was  rough ; 
then  I  saw  a  canoe  tossed  upon  the  waves,  and  in 
answer  to  my  cry,  I  heard  the  voice  of  Mademoiselle 
Dorothy." 

"  Ah,  Mademoiselle  Dorothy,"  said  Rene,  with 
gentle  reproach,  "  why  did  you  venture  forth  when 
the  water  was  rough  and  the  storm  at  hand?  We 
have  been  in  sore  distress  for  your  sake." 

"  I  have  done  wrong,"  said  Dorothy  meekly. 
"  Indeed,  I  grieve  deeply.  Alas,  how  often  I  have 
caused  sorrow  to  those  who  have  been  good  to 
me!" 

"  Ah,  do  not  reproach  yourself.  We  rejoice  now 
that  you  have  returned  to  us." 

Unmindful  that  the  canoe  was  unsteady,  Doro- 
thy leaned  over  the  side  and  said,  in  a  low  voice, 
"  Brother  Rene,  will  the  Superior  greet  me  with 
unusual  sternness?  Is  he  angered  beyond  forgive- 
ness? " 

"  No,  no,  do  not  fear.    He  shall  not  upbraid  you. 


IS 

I 

►t 


I 


Ubc  iRemrn  ot  the  TOan^erers      2 1 9 

We  will  all  speak  in  your  defence.  And,  indeed,  he 
will  greet  you  with  joy,  for  he  has  feared  for  your 
life."  ^ 

Leon  caught  her  arm,  "  Have  a  care.  Mademoi- 
selle Dorothy.  The  vessel  is  but  light,  and  readily 
overturned." 

She  balanced  herself  in  the  centre,  and  said  no 
more  until  they  reached  the  land. 

Rene's  shout,  "  We  have  found  her;  she  is  safe," 
had  been  carried  to  the  fort,  and  Fathers  Rague- 
neau,  Bressani,  and  their  colleagues,  hastened  to 
the  shore.  They  had  searched  with  the  others,  and 
had  retired  to  the  residence  for  prayer. 

Leon  and  Dorothy  had  landed,  and  were  sur- 
rounded by  an  excited  group  when  the  Fathers  ap- 
proached. The  circle  was  aglow  with  torches,  so 
they  saw  plainly  the  young  man  and  the  girl;  but 
the  voices  were  indistinguishable  in  the  hubbub  of 
words. 

The  Superior's  face  grew  sterner  when  he  saw 
De  Charolais.  He  had  believed  that  the  young 
man  was  many  miles  away. 

Before  he  addressed  a  word  to  Dorothy,  he  said 
coldly,  "  And  is  it  thus  that  you  obey  my  com- 
mands, Leon?  " 

"  Reverend  Father,"  replied  the  young  man, 
"an  emergency  arose  among  our  people  which 
made  immediate  consultation  with  you  desirable. 
Under  circumstances  so  unforeseen,  I  believed  that 


i 


raTniwm 


I! 


P'  t 


f  Id 


h  )' 


2  20    xube  IRomance  of  a  5e0uft  /l>id9ion 

you  would  pardon  my  apparent  disregard  of  your 
directions  so  soon  as  you  should  have  heard  my 
reasons." 

"  And  how  comes  it  that  you  return  here  with 
Mademoiselle  Dorothy?  " 

"  I  believe  truly  that  by  the  guidance  of  Heaven 
I  found  her,  when,  in  the  storm,  she  was  in  peril  of 
death.  By  your  permission,  Reverend  Father,  I 
will  accompany  you  to  the  residence,  and  there  tell 
vou  all." 

"  Be  it  so,"  said  Ragueneau. 

He  turned,  and  began  to  walk  toward  the  fort, 
and  Leon  followed  with  Dorothy.  "  Do  not  fear," 
he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  to  the  trembling  girl ;  "  when 
I  have  told  him  all,  he  will  not  be  angry  with  you." 

Ragueneau  had  rejoiced  when  he  heard  of  Doro- 
thy's safety,  and  was  ready  to  forgive  her  for  her 
recklessness.  But  when  he  saw  her  with  Leon,  he 
was  sorely  perplexed,  and  did  not  address  a  word 
to  her. 

Dorothy  had  thought  of  many  things  while  she 
rested  in  the  canoe.  Leon's  distress  at  the  recital 
of  her  love  story  had  confirmed  the  thought  that 
had  startled  her  when  they  stood  by  the  fire.  She 
remembered  how  often,  at  the  palisades,  she  had 
begged  him  to  come  soon  again,  how  she  had  told 
him  that  his  presence  comforted  her,  that  she  was 
lonely  without  him.  She  had  been  so  absorbed  by 
the  remembrance  of  her  own  sorrow  that  she  had 


XCbe  IReturn  of  tbe  Wan^erer^ 


221 


been  blind  to  many  things.  She  had  thought  it 
was  his  pity  for  her  that  led  him  to  speak  to  her  in 
tones  so  different  from  those  he  used  in  his  words 
to  Nialona;  that  his  emotion  w'hcn  parting  from 
her  was  due  to  the  same  cause;  but  she  knew  better 
now.  She  had  been  brought  up  apart  from  the 
world,  and  was  childlike  in  many  things,  older  than 
her  years  in  others.  She  had  something  to  tell 
Leon,  something  that  would  perhaps  justify  her  if 
he  thought  she  had  willingly  deceived  him. 

As  they  walked  behind  the  Superior  and  Bres- 
sani,  she  said  very  low,  "  Brother  Leon." 

"  What  is  it,  my  Sister  Dorothy?  " 

"  I — desire  to  tell  you — on  the  first  day  when  I 
saw  you,  when  you  came  to  me  to  speak  in  English, 
I  perceived  in  you  a  resemblance  to — my  Godfrey, 
so  that — from  the  beginning — ^^bcfore  I  had  many 
words  with  you — I  put  my  trust  in  you  for  his  sake 
— always  you  seemed  nearer  to  me  than  any  other. 
I — knew  you  were  good  and  true,  as  he  is." 

Leon  had  slackened  his  steps,  so  the  Fathers 
should  not  hear.    But  he  did  not  answer. 

"  You — are  taller  than  he,"  she  went  on,  hesitat- 
ingly, "  though  he  is  of  goodly  height.  And  I 
doubt  not  that  some  would  say  that  your  features 
are  more  comely;  yet  he  is  fair  to  look  upon.  How- 
ever that  may  be,  his  heart  is  noble,  and  well  I  know 
that  vours  is  noble,  too." 

Still  he  said  no  word,  and  she  feared  she  had 
hurt  him. 


u 


i 


«    !' 


m. 


i 

I: 


i! 


222    ube  iRomance  ot  a  5eduU  /Didsion 

"  Brother  Leon — if — at  any  time  I  have  spoken 
words,  done  any  acts,  that  have  given  you  pain,  I 
am  grieved;  I  repent  it  sorely.  It  has  not  been 
with  intention.  Your  kindness  to  me  has  been 
great;  but " 

"  Do  not  grieve,  my  Sister  Dorothy,  I  know  well 
the  goodness  of  your  heart " 

The  Superior  turned,  and  moti(  ned  to  Leon  to 
hasten.  When  the  two  reached  him,  he  directed 
Leon  to  walk  beside  Bressani,  while  he  accom- 
panied Dorothy.  But  he  did  not  speak  to  her  until 
they  arrived  at  the  residence,  which  stood  within 
the  unfinished  walls  of  the  fort. 

He  led  the  way  to  a  small  room,  which  had  been 
set  apart  for  the  use  of  the  priests  from  the  mission 
to  the  Tobacco  Nation,  in  case  they  should  be  able 
to  visit  the  island.  So  far  it  had  been  unoccupied. 
He  pointed  to  a  hard  bed,  and  said  to  Dorothy, 
"  The  hour  is  late,  and  rest  is  needful;  remain  here 
for  the  night.  In  the  morning,  I  will  tell  you 
further." 

"  Will  you  not  order  also  some  refreshment  for 
the  young  girl?  "  said  Bressani. 

The  Superior  looked  at  Dorothy's  white  face, 
and  answered,  "  Bring  her  a  portion  of  the 
strengthening  cordial  from  our  store,  with  bread 
and  meat,  if  our  larder  is  not  empty  of  meat." 

"  I  thank  you,  I  want  nothing,"  said  Dorothy 
feebly. 


Ubc  IRetiirn  of  the  mant>cvcv3       223 

But  presently  Father  Bressani  returned  with  a 
hot  cordial  in  a  silver  cup— a  mucli-prized  vessel 
and  some  cakes  of  corn.    The  larder  contained  no 
meat. 

Ragueneau  had  gone  out  with  Leon.  Bressani 
looked  with  pity  on  the  fragile  girl,  and  said,  "  Eat 
my  daughter,  and  then  sleep.  Yet.  ere  I  leave  you 
if  you  have  aught  on  your  mind  that  troubles  you' 
tell  It  to  me,  and  so  find  rest.  When  you  left  us  in 
the  storm,  what  purpose  had  you,  and  whom  did 
you  seek? " 

"  I  sought  no  one.  Father.    I  but " 

She  was  very  weak;  she  trembled,  and  her  face 

quivered,  as  if  she  were  on  the  point  of  tears. 
"  Have  I  at  any  time  said  to  you  a  harsh  word 

my  daughter,  that  you  fear  me?"  asked  Bressani 

softly. 

She  looked  into  his  face,  rugged,  yet  gentle. 
He  bore  scars  on  his  face  and  hands  from  tortures 
that  he  had  received  from  the  Indians.  He  had  not 
the  grand  physique  of  Brebeuf,  yet  in  some  ways  he 
resembled  him. 

"  Father,  I  sought  but  to  flee  from  my  misery  I 
set  forth,  knowing  not  whither  I  went;  and  it  may 
bv-  the  good  Father  in  Heaven  guided  me  to  that 
place  on  the  waters  where  I  was  met  by  the  Brother 
Leon  de  Charolais.  To  him  I  have  spoken  of  the 
trouble  that  drove  me  from  this  island;  he  has  my 
permission  to  relate  it  to  the  Superior.  Pray  ask 
me  not  further.  Father;  he  will  tell  you  all." 


4 


''     ^ 


224    Tlbe  IRomance  ot  a  Jesuit  nDisdfon 


|J|^ 


V'  ' 


"  Rest  then,  my  daughter,  and — trust  us.  We 
wish  you  naught  but  good." 

When  he  had  gone,  Dorothy  drank  the  cordial, 
and  ate  a  portion  of  the  cake,  and  felt  much  re- 
vived. She  thought  she  coukl  not  sleep;  but  pres- 
ently her  head  drooped,  and  she  lay  on  the  bed,  and 
slept  soundly. 

The  sun  was  high  when  the  sound  of  footsteps 
roused  her.    She  sat  up,  and  saw  Madame  Couture. 

"  I  come  for  you,"  said  the  Indian  woman. 
"  From  this  time  you  live  in  my  house.  So  says 
the  good  Father." 

Dorothy  had  not  undressed.  She  rose,  and  tried 
to  fasten  her  tumbled  hair,  and  followed  Madame 
Couture  from  the  room.. 

In  an  adjoining  room  the  Superior  awaited  her. 

"  Your  home  will  be  with  Madame  Couture,"  he 
said,  and  Dorothy  thought  there  was  unusual  gen- 
tleness in  his  manner.  "With  her,  you  will  be  pro- 
tected, and  she  will  treat  you  with  kindness.  But, 
ere  you  go,  you  must  givL'  me  your  promise  that 
you  will  never  again  vcn^tn-e  on  the  water,  or  wan- 
der away  alone,  far  from  IMadame  Couture's  lodge. 
You  have  more  than  once  been  the  cause  of  grave 
anxiety  to  us  all." 

"  I  promise.  Father,"  said  Dorothy  meekly. 

Then  she  followed  Madame  Couture,  and,  as  she 
went,  looked  in  vain  for  a  glimpse  of  Leon. 


I 


XXV 

S)epartute  ot  Xeon  anD  firessani  tor  Quebec 

When  Leon  found  himself  alone  with  the  Supe- 
rior, he  explained  his  motives  in  seeking  Isle  St. 
Joseph,  his  meeting  with  Dorothy,  how  they  had 
taken  refuge  on  the  rocky  island,  and  the  reasons 
she  had  given  him  for  setting  out  in  the  storm.  He 
told  his  story  so  frankly,  and  the  Superior's  rigid 
questioning  and  cross-examination  were  so  ineffec- 
tive in  finding  any  flaw  in  the  evidence  that  he  was 
convinced  of  the  truth  of  the  young  man's  words. 
In  reply  to  Leon's  question,  What  should  be  done 
for  Dorothy's  protection  againsit  Hauteroche's  ad- 
vances, Ragueneau  replied  that  with  Madame  Cou- 
ture she  would  not  be  subjected  to  the  jealousies 
of  the  Huron  girls,  cind  that  Hauteroche  should 
leave  the  island  within  a  few  hours  in  charge  of 
some  Hurons,  on  an  expedition  which  would  not 
return  for  several  months  at  least.  If  he  should 
deny  the  accusation,  the  Superior  would  obtain  a 
statement  from  Dorothy  on  the  subject. 

Bressani  had  come  in,  and  his  eyes  were  fixed  on 

Leon  when  the  Superior  put  the  question:  "  Tell 

225 


MHI 


4 


'tl,    i] 


f 


II 


if3  m 


I  I 


Hi!; 

i  ■■ 


li 

M 


ili: 


226   xibe  IRomance  ot  a  Sesutt  /iDisaion 

me  truly,  Leon  de  Charolais,  as  it  were  in  the  sa- 
credness  of  the  confessional,  have  you  at  any  time 
spoken  word  of  love  to  this  maiden?  " 

Leon's  face  grew  pale,  and  he  hesitated  a  mo- 
ment before  he  answered,  *'  Father,  I  have  not." 

Ragueneau  was  disturbed.  The  young  man's 
hesitatioii  seemed  suspicious. 

"  Have  you  by  any  action,  any  look  or  sign,  given 
her  cause  to  believe  that  you  loved  her?  " 

The  blood  rushed  to  Leon's  face,  and  again  he 
hesitated.  When  he  answered,  his  voice  was  low, 
"  Father,  if  word,  deed,  or  look  of  mine  has  con- 
veyed to  her  that  belief,  it  has  been,  on  my  part, 
without  intention.  Of  this  I  may  assure  you: 
from  her  manner  toward  me,  I  am  convinced  that, 
while  she  has  a  regard  for  me,  a  feeling  of  kind- 
ness— I  judge  so  from  many  words  she  has  spoken 
— she  has  never  thought  of  me  as  a  lover." 

"  How  could  you  know  this  had  you  not  spoken 
to  her  of  love?  " 

"  I  have  felt  assi  red  of  it,  yet,  I  repeat  with  all 
sacredness,  as  I  v/ere  in  the  confessional,  without 
word  of  love  spoken  to  her.  She  is  as  a  child  in  her 
innocence;  she  cannot  hide  her  heart." 

"  Yet  you  have  let  your  heart  wander  from  the 
Church  to  which  you  are  pledged,  and  have  given 
it  to  this  maiden." 

Leon  bent  his  head  in  his  hands.  When  he  raised 
it,   he  did   not  look  up.     "  It   went   from   me, 


^ 


i\ 


3B)cpartttre  of  Xe'on  nnt>  Bressant     227 

whether  I  would  or  no.  I  have  sought,  God  knows 
how  earnestly,  to  be  faithful  to  my  vow  to  my 
mother,  and  the  pledge  I  gave  to  another,  on  the 
eve  of  my  departure  from  the  mission. 

"  It  is  true, my  heart  has  gone  out  to  her,  whether 
I  would  or  no;  but  of  that,  as  I  have  said,  I  have 
never  uttered  word  to  her,  though  Heaven  knows 
I  have  been  sorely  tempted.  I  tell  you  this  for  her 
sake,  that  you  may  know  she  is  innocent  and  true." 

Bressani's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  Perhaps,  who 
knows,  some  memory  of  his  young  life  was  stirred. 

"  Reverend  Father,"  he  said  presently,  "  a  word 
with  you  alone." 

The  two  priests  retired,  and  conversed  for  some 
time.  When  they  returned  Leon  sat  where  they 
had  left  him,  his  head  resting  on  his  arms  upon  the 
table. 

He  started  and  raised  himself  when  he  heard 
their  approaching  footsteps;  but  not  before  they 
had  perceived  his  attitude  of  dejection. 

"  De  Charolais,"  said  the  Superior,  with  unusual 
gentleness,  "  at  noon  Father  Brcssr,  \,  with  a  com- 
pany of  Burons,  sets  out  to  seek  Quebec,  there  to 
obtain,  if  possible,  reinforcements  for  our  mission. 
It  is  necessary  that  some  one  go  from  Quebec  to 
the  Superior  General  for  instructions.  It  has  been 
decided  that  you  accompany  the  party  to  Quebec; 
thence,  if  deemed  advisable,  you  may  be  sent  to  the 
General.    Monsieur  le  Breton  will  carry  my  mes- 


wmmmmm 


t . 


:r^ 


1^1 


:    'i 


Ir    I 


a  i 


:;)i: 


228    zbc  IRomance  ot  a  Jesuit  /BMsslon 

sages  to  your  men.  You  may  rest  now.  All  nec- 
essary preparations  for  your  journey  will  be  made 
for  you." 

Leon  appeared  dazed  by  the  sudden  announce- 
ment. "  But  how  is  it  possible  to  prepare  in  such 
brief  time  for  a  journey  so  difficult?  " 

"  Everything  is  already  in  order  for  my  depart- 
ure," said  Bressani.  "  The  few  things  of  which 
you  have  need  can  soon  be  made  ready.  Take  now 
your  needed  rest;  do  not  leave  your  room  until 
you  are  rousea  to  partake  of  refreshments  before 
setting  forth.  We  will  then  journey  till  we  reach 
our  halting  place  for  the  night." 

Leon  obeyed  almost  mechanically.  He  was 
weary,  body  and  mind,  and  spite  of  troubled 
thoughts  of  Dorothy  he  fell  into  a  deep  sleep,  from 
which  he  was  roused  but  a  short  time  before  a 
hurried  departure.  He  had  no  opportunity  to  send 
her  a  message;  he  could  not  even  catch  a  glimpse 
of  her  face.  Many  Huron  women  stood  on  the 
bank  when  the  fleet  of  canoes  set  out;  but  she  was 
not  with  them.  He  knew  she  had  been  kept  in 
Madame  Couture's  lodge,  and  would  not  be  per- 
mitted to  leave  it  until  he  was  far  on  his  way.  He 
watched  the  island  until  it  was  but  a  dim  line  on 
the  waters;  then,  with  heavy  heart  and  stifled  moan, 
paddled  away  with  his  companions. 


II 


'{ 


1 


XXVI 

H  Dreari?  OTInter 

As  she  had  been  directed,  Madame  Couture  kept 
a  watchful  eye  on  her  charge,  and  it  was  not  until 
Monsieur  Couture  arrived  at  the  lodge  in  the  even- 
ing that  she  heard  that  De  Charolais  had  accom- 
panied Father  Bressani's  party  to  Quebec. 

"  To  Quebec!  "  cried  the  girl.  "  So  far,  and  the 
way  so  full  of  peril!  And  when  will  they  return?  " 

"  Who  knows?  "  replied  Monsieur  Couture  curt- 
ly. He  was  a  practical  man,  who  had  little  sympa- 
thy with  sentiment.  He,  with  others,  had  suspi- 
cions of  the  reasons  why  Leon  had  been  sent  off, 
and  he  believed  that  the  rough  travel  of  the  wil- 
derness would  soon  lead  him  to  forget  his  fancy  for 
the  maiden.  A  boy's  fancy.  Couture  called  it;  for 
he  was  many  years  older  than  Leon.  He  had  al- 
ways looked  on  Dorothy  as  a  most  troublesome 
young  person,  and  was  not  well  pleased  by  her  in- 
troduction to  his  household.  But  the  request  of 
Father  Ragueneau  was  regarded  as  the  equivalent 
of  a  command  that  must  not  be  disobeyed. 

Madame  Couture  had  been  married  for  several 
years,  and  was  much  farther  advanced  in  civiliza- 

i39 


gg^gg, 


p 

r 

^li! 

1^ ' 

\r'' 

■ 

1* 

iP: 


'■if') 


te,il 


"I 


i. 


H" 


230    xibc  IRomancc  ot  a  Jesuit  /IMssion 

tion  than  the  majority  of  her  Huron  sisters  on  the 
island.  She  had  a  family  of  young  children,  and 
Dorothy  was  expected  to  assist  her  in  the  care  of 
them.  The  priests  said  it  was  desirable  that  she 
should  be  occupied,  though  they  cautioned  the  In- 
dian wom.  to  remember  that  the  young  girl  was 
delicate.  L  .  le  Couture  was  not  unkind,  but 
her  perceptions  ...:re  somewhat  dull;  she  had  been 
accustomed  to  a  life  of  drudgery,  and  had  little  idea 
of  the  limits  of  her  young  assistant's  strength. 

The  missionaries  were  anxious  that  she  should 
be  happy  and  well  cared  for;  but  the  many  needs  of 
their  large  flock  demanded  all  the  time  they  had  to 
give,  and  they  seldom  saw  her  except  at  the  daily 
brief  service  in  the  chapel,  which  she  was  obliged  to 
attend  with  Madame  Couture. 

The  Couture  house  was  on  the  side  of  the  island 
opposite  that  of  the  Huron  village,  but  was  near 
enough  to  the  fort  to  be  within  easy  reach  in  case 
of  attack.  Madame  Couture's  aged  mother  lived 
with  her,  and  one  or  the  other  watched  Dorothy 
almost  continually.  They  observed  the  Superior's 
instruction  literally,  and  went  beyond  his  inten- 
tions. She  was  rarely  left  alone  for  a  moment,  lest 
she  should  attempt  to  escape  or  do  herself  some 
harm.  Their  supervision  had  not  the  jealous  and 
suspicious  watchfulness  that  Nialona  had  exer- 
cised, but  it  was  exceedingly  irksome. 

In  the  late  autumn,  many  Hurons  who  had  srb- 


a  H>rcar^  TRUlnter 


231 


sisted  miserably  in  the  northern  forests  and  islands, 
joined  their  countrymen  at  St.  Joseph,  until  several 
thousand  were  gathered  under  the  protection  of 
the  missionaries.  They  were  housed  in  large  lodges 
of  bark  and  saplings,  after  thj  Huron  fashion,  each 
house  containing  eight  or  ten  families.  Widows 
without  children  and  children  without  parents 
were  there;  and  of  these  broken  families  many 
were  almost  perishing  from  famine.  Few  had 
strength  to  labor,  and  scarcely  any  had  made  provi- 
sion for  the  winter.  The  priests  had  done  what 
they  could  to  meet  the  necessity.  They  had  sent 
men  to  buy  smoked  nsh  from  the  northern  Algon- 
quins,  and  employed  Indians  to  gather  acorns  in 
the  woods.  They  had  collected  several  hundred 
bushels,  and  ate  this  food  boiled  with  ashes,  to  di- 
minish its  bitterness,  or  pounded  and  mixed  with 
corn. 

As  winter  advanced,  the  people  in  the  Huron 
village  died  by  scores.  The  priests  and  their  men 
buried  the  bodies,  and  the  Indians,  gnawed  by 
famine,  dug  them  from  the  earth  or  the  snov/  and 
fed  on  them.  Then  pestilence  appeared,  and  nearly 
half  of  those  who  had  sought  refuge  on  the  island 
died  from  famine  or  disease. 

Meanwhile,  spite  of  intense  cold  and  deep  snow, 
there  was  continual  fear  of  an  Iroquois  attack,  and 
from  sunset  to  daybreak  the  French  sentries  walked 
their  rounds. 


■^ 


tm 


i'i  Mtl 


232    Zbc  IRomance  ot  a  Result  /l^i6^ion 


h\ 


iiw'.!; 


\.\:\. 


111! 


1)1 


rv 


The  priests  rose  before  dawn,  and  spent  the  time 
until  sunrise  in  their  private  devotions.  Then  the 
bell  of  their  chapel  rang,  and  the  Indians  came  in 
crowds.  The  little  chapel  was  not  nearly  large 
enough  to  accommodate  all  at  once;  so,  after  each 
service — a  mass,  followed  by  a  prayer  and  a  few 
words  of  exhortation — the  hearers  dispersed  to 
make  room  for  others,  ai)d  the  chapel  was  filled  ten 
or  twelve  times  until  all  had  had  their  turn.  Nearly 
all  on  th." .'  .lar"^l  now  professed  Christianity.  While 
the  services  were  going  on,  other  priests  were  hear- 
ing confessions,  or  giving  advice  and  encourage- 
ment in  private.  At  9  o'clock  the  Indians  returned 
to  the  village,  and  the  priests  soon  followed.  Their 
cassocks  were  all  worn  out,  and  they  dressed  chiefly 
in  skins.  They  visited  the  Indian  houses,  and  gave 
to  those  who  were  in  most  urgent  need  small  scraps 
of  hide,  each  stamped  with  a  particular  mark.  The 
recipients  afterward  presented  these  leather  tickets 
at  the  fort  and  received  a  few  acorns,  a  little  boiled 
maize,  or  a  piece  of  smoked  fish,  according  to  the 
stamp  that  their  ticket  bore.  Two  hours  before 
sunset,  the  bell  of  the  chapel  rang  again  for  ser- 
vices. 

At  one  time,  the  superstitious  Indians  had  been 
in  great  fear  of  the  pictures  and  images  of  the 
Jesuits.  They  had  believed  the  litanies  were  incan- 
tations, and,  during  an  epidemic,  declared  that  the 
clock  gave  the  stroke  of  death;  so  that  the  Fathers, 


I 


H  S)reari?  TPIlintet 


233 


1 


to  calm  their  fears,  were  obliged  to  stop  its  strik- 
ing. A  picture  of  the  Last  Judgment  had  been  an 
especial  object  of  dread,  they  thinking  the  dragons 
and  serpents  represented  thereon  were  the  demons 
of  the  pest.  But  these  fears  no  longer  troubled 
them.  They  had  perfect  confidence  in  their  in- 
structors. 

Kishik  died  suddenly  early  in  the  winter.  Doro- 
thy had  not  seen  her  for  some  time,  for  Nialona  and 
Washaka  appeared  to  be  so  embittered  against  her 
that  she  avoided  them;  besides,  she  had  little  oppor- 
tunity to  visit  any  one.  She  went  with  Madame 
Couture  to  the  chapel,  and  saw  the  body  of  her 
old  friend  in  its  rough  coflfin.  Thoug'h  Kishik  had 
often  grumbled  on  account  of  the  trouble  Doro- 
thy's long  illness  had  given,  she  had  been  kind  in 
her  way,  and  Dorothy  had  been  attached  to  her. 
But  she  shed  no  tears.  In  the  earlier  days  of  her 
separation  from  Godfrey,  before  and  after  her  ar- 
rival at  Sainte  Marie,  she  had  passed  through  many 
perils,  events  had  crowded  one  upon  another,  and 
excitement  had  to  some  extent  sustained  her.  But 
for  months  she  had  been  practically  without  com- 
panionship, the  daily  life  had  been  a  round  of  mo- 
notonous work;  the  only  news  had  been  the  talc  of 
the  fast  decreasing  population  on  the  island.  At 
first,  her  heart  had  been  deeply  stirred  by  pity,  but 
now  she  hardly  felt  that  emotion.  She  partook  of 
the  general  apathy  and  hopelessness,  and  accepted 


DB 


tmMumi'maaxj-!^ 


n\ 


I  [ 


'I 


234    Ube  IRomance  of  a  Sesuit  /iDission 

with  indifference  the  events  of  life  as  they  came  to 
her. 

The  daily  services  in  the  chapel  were  welcomed 
by  her,  though  she  continued  to  reject  the  appeals 
of  the  missionaries  regarding  her  spiritual  state. 
Their  faith  was  not  that  of  the  only  mother  she  had 
known;  it  was  not  the  faith  of  her  Godfrey.  Yet 
when  she  marvelled  at  their  serenity  amid  privation 
and  disaster,  the  thought  came  to  her  that  could 
she  share  their  trust,  she,  too,  might  be  sustained 
and  cheered.  She  would  have  been  glad,  too,  to  re- 
lieve their  anxiety;  she  knew  they  feared  that 
should  she  die  now  her  soul  must  die  e'ternally; 
yet,  to  their  urging  she  rephed  gently  that  she 
could  not  do  as  they  wished. 

The  Couture  family  had  not  been  permitted  to 
suffer  from  insufficient  food.  Maize  and  smoked 
fish  were  supplied  from  the  fort.  The  fare  was 
coarse,  and  seldom  varied,  but  it  was  seldom 
stinted.  Though  bands  of  Iroquois  roamed  on  the 
mainland,  parties  of  Huron  had  ventured  on  the 
winter  hunt.  From  time  to  time  they  returned 
with  venison  and  game,  and  a  portion  was  always 
sent  to  the  Couture  house,  on  Dorothy's  account. 
The  Fathers  were  powerless  to  prevent  the  starva- 
tion of  large  numbers  of  Indians;  but  this  one  white 
girl,  who  had  been  so  strangely  sent  to  them,  must 
be  cared  for.  Yet,  frail  as  she  had  always  been  since 
she  had  come  to  them,  they  saw  that  she  was  fail- 


I 


a  meatus  Mlntct 


235 


ing.    She  had  of  necessity  to  endure  physical  dis- 
comfort  for  which  she  was  less  fitted  than  any 
other  islander.    The  Indians  had  been  born  to  it 
and  the  Frenchmen  were  hardy.     Snow  drifted 
hrough  the  crevices  of  the  bark  lodge.    Provisions 
froze  hard     Boiled  maize  left  from  supper  had  to 
be  thawed  for  breakfast,  and  frozen  meat  or  fish 
must  needs  be  chopped  with  an  axe.    But  wretched 
Indian  women  were  eating  the  inner  bark  of  trees 
to  still  the  pangs  of  hunger,  and  the  white  girl 
would  gladly  have  shared  her  portion  with  them 


Hi! 


i ! ''.       i 


ZSmh 


m 


(! 


h.  ■ 


XXVII 

JStotbet  IRen^ 

Late  in  the  winter,  Rene  le  Breton  returned  to 
the  island  after  an  absence  of  several  months.  His 
first  sight  of  Dorothy  was  in  the  chapel.  Her  head 
was  bowed,  and  she  did  not  appear  to  notice  any- 
thing. Dejection  was  apparent  in  every  line  of 
face  and  figure.  Her  eyes  were  dull,  her  skin  was 
sallow,  there  was  no  youthful  softness  in  the  hollow 
cheeks.  Even  her  hair  had  lost  its  brightness,  and 
was  harsh  and  dry.  When  she  lifted  her  head  and 
saw  Rene,  she  gave  a  little  start;  her  face  lighted 
for  a  moment,  but  quickly  lapsed  into  apathy. 

Rene  had  no  opportunity  to  speak  to  her  when 
the  services  were  over.  She  followed  Madame  Cou- 
ture and  her  children,  and  had  left  the  church  be- 
fore he  could  break  away  from  the  greetings  of 
some  old  comrades.  In  the  afternoon,  he  spoke  to 
the  Superior. 

"  Father,  you  see  Mademoiselle  Dorothy  daily, 

and  it  may  be  you  do  not  perceive  the  change  in 

her;  I,  returning  after  long  absence,  see  that  she  is 

not  alone  wasting  bodily,  but  that  there  is  some 

disease  of  the  mind." 

236 


t 


JSrotber  tRene" 


237 


"  Nay,  my  son,  we  have  observed  the  change;  it 
has  deeply  troubled  us.  We  have  done  what  we 
could  for  her  bodily  health;  but  we  know  well  that 
there  is  a  sickness  of  soul  that  we  cannot  touch,  for 
she  has  refused  continually  to  confide  to  us  the 
cause.  We  fear  that  this  persistent  refusal  hides 
some  wrong-doing  in  her  past.  We  have  pleaded 
with  her  most  gently;  but  she  will  tell  us  nothing." 

Rene  was  silent.  He  knew  that  the  Superior's 
grave  air  always  gave  Dorothy  the  impression  that 
he  was  displeased  with  her. 

Ragueneau  went  on,  "  We  desire  to  make  her 
life  more  tolerable.  She  has  been  delicately  nurt- 
ured; were  it  possible  we  would  shield  her  from 
hardship;  but  that  cannot  be.  She  is  surrounded 
by  famine  and  despair,  and  she  must  bear  her  part. 
Monsieur  Couture  tells  us  that  she  does  the  work 
assigned  to  her,  is  never  wilful,  but  that  her  words 
are  few;  that  she  appears  to  live  in  a  world  apart 
from  this  place;  that  her  one  desire  is  to  be  alone." 

"  Father,  permit  me  to  visit  her.  She  has  a 
friendship  for  me.  It  may  be  in  my  power  to  cheer 
her." 

Father  Ragueneau  hesitated.  He  ,  fiembered 
his  former  anxiety  regarding  Dorothy's  fascina- 
tions. But,  after  some  consideration,  he  gave  per- 
mission. 

In  the  evening  Le  Breton  arrived  at  the  lodge 
with  a  gift  of  venison  for  Madame  Couture.    She 


n\ 


Hi: 


^ 


in 


'i/' 


238    Ube  IRomance  of  a  Jesuit  /ftissfon 

had  gone  to  the  Indian  village,  her  aged  mother 
was  dozing  in  the  next  room,  and  the  children  were 
asleep. 

Dorothy  opened  the  door.  She  received  the 
young  man  politely,  but  as  indifferently  as  if  he  had 
not  returned  after  a  long  absence. 

"  With  your  permission,  Sister  Dorothy,"  he 
said,  "  I  will  come  in  and  tell  you  something  of  my 
adventures  since  we  met." 

"  I  thank  you,  Monsieur  le  Breton;  but  do  you 
not  remember  the  Superior  does  not  allow  me  to 
receive  visits?  " 

"  I  have  come  here  with  his  consent.  If  I  remain 
at  the  fort  I  will  come  many  times  if  it  is  agreeabh 
to  you.  Sister  Dorothy." 

She  did  not  answer  for  a  few  moments;  then  she 
said  in  a  listless  voice,  "  You  are  kind;  it  will  please 
me  to  see  you;  yet  you  will  find  me  but  dull;  when 
I  would  converse,  I  scarce  remember  what  words  I 
would  use;  perchance  I  have  thought  much,  and 
my  mind  has  grown  too  weary,  for  now  I  recall  with 
difficulty  from  hour  to  hour,  and  neglect,  unwit- 
tingly, the  work  that  I  should  do." 

"Poor  child,  poor  little  Sister  Dorothy;  you  have 
been  without  a  companion;  your  life  has  been  too 
dreary;  some  recreation  may  brighten  it.  You 
will  walk  with  me.  I  will  draw  you  on  a  sledge  on 
the  ice.  You  will  grow  strong  again,  and  smile 
again." 


15rotbcr  iRene 


239 


"  Ah,  Brother  Rene,  I  fear  not.  Would  that  I 
could,  in  return  for  your  kindness!  At  one  time  I 
could  make  an  appearance  of  happiness;  now,  I 
have  not  even  strength  for  that.  But  I  thank  you 
from  my  heart." 

But  the  next  day,  when  Dorothy  returned  from 
an  outing  with  Rene  and  the  Couture  children, 
there  was  a  little  color  in  her  face  and  more  life  in 
her  voice. 

One  evening,  he  showed  her  a  miniature  of  his 
mother.  She  held  it  in  her  hand,  and  looked  at  it 
long.  "  Ah,  she  is  sweet,  iier  face  so  full  of  mother 
love!  You  miss  her.  You  hope  for  the  day  when 
you  may  sec  her  once  more." 

"  I  do,  I  long  for  it,"  he  said,  with  much  feeling. 
He  looked  at  her,  as  if  to  ask,  "  Do  you  not  long  to 
see  those  who  are  dear  to  you?  " 

She  answered  the  questioning  look.  "  I  wore 
about  my  neck  a  chain,  from  which  hung  the  pict- 
ure of  my — of  the  one  whom  I  had  always  called 
mother;  but  that,  with  all  the  gifts  I  had  from  her, 
was  taken  from  me.  O,  it  was  cruel,  I  loved  it  so; 
but  they  could  not  take  her  from  my  heart." 

"  Did  your  own  mother  die  in  your  infancy?  "  he 
asked  abruptly,  and  the  next  moment  regretted 
the  words,  for  Dorothy  looked  startled,  and  her 
face  grew  paler.  **'  I — have  no  recollection  of  her. 
I — was  left — motherless  when  I  was  a  babe.  But — 
mother — I  knew  not  till  she  lay  dead  that  she  was 


^tiammmmBnmmimmamaam 


\l  k'. 


<:'■  'I' 


240    ubc  IRomance  ot  a  Scswit  ObiBsion 

not  my  own  mother — was  tender  to  me  as  if  I  had 
been  her  own  child;  too  tender,  it  may  be.  She 
spared  me  all  knowledge  of  the  evil  of  the  world, 
shielded  me  from  all  that  could  hurt  me.  Ah  me, 
how  I  have  longed  to  lay  my  head  on  her  breast,  to 
tell  her  all  that  has  come  to  me  since  she  left  me; 
then  I  cry  out  on  myself  for  the  thought,  *  She  is 
happy;  how  dare  you  wish  that  she  should  have 
knowledge  of  your  misery?  '  " 

She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands.  Rene's  eyes  were 
blinded  by  tears.  He  laid  his  hand  gently  on  the 
bowed  head.  "  Had  you  no  one  of  your  own  kin- 
dred, or  no  friend?  " 

"  Of  my  own  kin  I  know  not  one." 
"'  But  friends,  had  you  no  friends?  " 
"  I  had — one  friend."  She  laid  her  head  on  the 
table,  and  was  unmindful  of  Rene's  presence.  Pres- 
ently she  moaned  out  some  words  that  he  did  not 
hear  distinctly.  Then  came  a  cry  that  seemed  to 
be  wrung  from  her  heart,  and  he  thought  that  it 
was, "  O,  Leon,  Leon!  " 

He  believed  now,  beyond  doubting,  that  she 
loved  De  Charolais. 

She  seemed  unconscious  that  she  had  said  the 
name,  and  when  she  raised  her  head,  she  said  brok- 
enly, **  I  had  one  friend.  Brother  Rene,  one  who 
loved  me,  one  whom  I  love  now  and  will  love  for- 
ever. But  we  were  parted,  forbidden  to  see  each 
other,  to  speak  together  again.  Ah,  Brother 
Rene,  life  has  been  hard,  very  hard  for  me.' 


>» 


3Brotbcr  IRene' 


241 


it 


I  know  it,  I  know  it,  my  poor  little  Sister 
Dorothy." 

"  Even  beside  her  dead  body,  they  said  such  false, 
such  cruel  words.  And  it  seemed  to  me  that  she 
must  hear  and  suffer  for  me,  as  if  the  dear,  mute  lips 
must  open  and  plead." 

From  the  crisp  snow  without,  they  heard  the 
footfalls  of  M.  Couture  and  his  wife.  "  Brother 
Rene,"  said  Dorothy  hastily,  "  promise  me.  prom- 
ise me  solemnly,  you  will  never,  never,  repeat  to 
any  one,  not  to  a  priest  in  the  confessional,  what  I 
have  said.    I  had  not  meant  to  say  it." 

Rene  promised,  and  kept  his  word.  That  even- 
ing, when  he  was  alone  with  the  Superior,  he 
showed  so  much  emotion  when  Dorothy's  name 
was  mentioned  that  Ragueneau's  anxiety  was 
again  aroused  for  the  young  man's  sake. 

Since  he  had  become  the  keeper  of  a  part  of 
Dorothy's  secret,  he  believed  himself  to  be  deeply 
in  love  with  her.  The  very  fact  of  her  devotion  to 
another  made  his  feeling  the  Keener.  He  told  him- 
self that  he  desired  Dorothy's  happiness,  yet  he 
liad  an  underlying  and  melancholy  satisfaction  in 
the  belief  that  his  rival's  pledge  to  a  priestly  life  and 
the  determination  of  others  to  hold  him  to  that 
pledge  put  the  probability  of  her  union  with  him 
out  of  the  question.  He  grew  pale,  encouraged  a 
pathetic  expression,  and  the  Superior  had  under 
consideration  a  plan  to  send  him  av/ay  again  from 
the  presence  of  the  siren. 


wmmmmm 


242    ube  IRomance  ot  a  Scdult  Mission 


I 


t*  M 


But  an  unlooked-for  event  changed  Rene  from 
a  sighing  and  hopeless  suitor  to  an  ecstatic  lover, 
though  he  found  somf'  difiiculty  in  adjusting  him- 
self to  his  new  role.  Three  of  the  men  who  had 
gone  to  the  French  settlements  in  tlv  .utumn  with 
Bressani  and  his  party  returned  at  this  time,  h  '  g- 
ing  with  them  many  documents  for  the  Father  and 
the  Frenchmen  at  the  fort.  The  Superior  was  re- 
lieved by  the  information  that  De  Charolais  had 
been  sent  to  France.  The  Frenchmen  at  the  fort 
received  letters  that  had  been  many  months  on 
their  way.  To  Le  Breton  came  one  from  his  father. 
It  announced  that  the  lady  of  his  heart  had  at  last 
discovered  that  she  had  been  mistaken  in  her  feel- 
ings, that  her  true  love  had  been  really  given  to 
Rene.  She  had  communicated  this  discovery  to 
her  father,  who  had  conferred  with  Rene's  father, 
and  all  would  be  satisfactorily  arranged  if  Rene 
would  return  as  soon  as  possible.  The  young  lady 
had  a  will  of  her  own,  and  had  refused  to  give  her 
consent  to  a  marriage  that  had  been  arranged  for 
her.  Yet  Rene's  joy  was  not  unminglcd  with  some 
pain.  The  thought  of  parting  from  Dorothy  gave 
him  some  severe  twinges.  As  affairs  had  turned,  he 
was  thankful  that  she  had  averted  his  open  declara- 
tion to  her.  He  congratulated  himself  on  his  con- 
stancy to  his  first  love.  He  would  be  able  with  a 
good  conscience  to  tell  her  he  had  always  been  true 
to  her.    He  really  persuaded  himself  that  he  had. 


ISrotber  1Rcn€ 


243 


and  that  his  feeling  for  Dorothy  had  been  but  a 
passing  ripple  on  the  deep  current  of  his  affections. 
He  was  much  concerned,  however,  as  to  what  Doro- 
thy might  think.    He  was  aware  that  he  had  said 
many  things  to  her  which  would  naturally  lead  her 
to  the  belief  that  he  had  more  than  a  brotherly  af- 
fection for  her;  but  perhaps  she  would  divine  the 
truth,  that  such  words  were  but  the  outcome  of 
his  chivalrous   pity  and  tenderness  for  her.      He 
hoped  she  would  look  at  it  in  this  way,  for  he  did  not 
wish  to  fall  in  her  estimation;  he  knew  she  had  but 
a  poor  opinion  of  men  who  were  fickle  in  love. 
When  he  told  her,  she  congratulated    him    and 
roused  herself  to  more  interest  than  he  had  seen  in 
her  since  his  return.    But  she  was  perplexed.    His 
words  to  her  on  their  arrival  on  the  island  in  the 
previous  spring  had  not  sounded  as  would  words  of 
the  faithful  and  despairing  lover  of  another  woman; 
she  tried  to  persuade  herself  that  sorrow  had  drawn 
him  to  her,  and  that  his  sympathy  for  her,  the  need 
of  sympathy  for  himself,  had  called  forth  utter- 
ances that  appeared  to  convey  more  than  he  had 
intended. 

"  Ah,  little  Sister  Dorothy,"  he  said  pensively. 
"  Am  I  selfish  in  my  joy  when  I  must  leave  you  to 
your  sorrow  and  hopelessness?  " 

"  Brother  Rene,  do  not  grieve  for  that.  Truly, 
truly,  I  rejoice  with  you.  And— also — it  brings  to 
me — some  hope." 


«=af-:^  -- J?i,ST;r,£3-io 


«^^WIIj3B«ffl! 


Tsa 


wmmm 


H 


''^i' 


pr 


m 


IK 


sassa 


IWIfLilW 


244  xrbc  IRomance  ot  a  Scsuft  /©(sslon 


What  could  she  mean?  "^le  debated  on  her  words 
in  his  mind,  and  said  absently,  what  he  had  not  in- 
tended for  her  ears,  "  Hope,  what  hope?  Will  he 
not  be  a  priest?  " 

She  looked  at  him  questioningly,  and  he  colored. 
Both  were  silent  for  some  time;  then  Dorothy  said 
quietly,  without  emotioh,  "  Brother  Rene,  I  know 
the  Superior  had  reason  for  anger  on  that  night 
when  I  left  the  island;  yet  he  appeared  so  deeply 
displeased  when  I  returned  with  Brother  Leon  de 
Cliarolais.  Brother  Leon  will  be  a  priest.  It  would 
seem  that  the  Reverend  Father  should  have  been 
well  satisfied  to  find  me  in  his  care." 

Rene  knew  she  had  spoken  in  reply  to  his  ex- 
clamation. Her  coolness  surprised  him.  Was  she 
acting? 


1/ 


M  ! ; 


I 


rW»l'i««WW^1M»M<MMMUUi<>»»»,^ 


XXVIII 

Hban^onment  ot  tbe  t>uron  Aisdion 

Returning  spring"  brought  little  hope  to  the 
starving  multitudes  on  the  island.  The  spring  fish- 
eries began,  and  the  melting  snow  uncovered  the 
acorns  in  the  woods;  but  along  the  mainland  the 
Iroquois  were  on  the  track  of  their  prey.  Some  of 
the  Hurons  chose  to  face  this  peril  rather  than  death 
by  starvation.  A  number  set  out  to  cross  the  ice; 
but,  softened  by  the  spring  sun,  it  gave  way,  and 
many  were  drowned.  Those  who  reached  the 
shore  divided  into  companies  of  from  ten  to  one 
hundred  persons,  and  began  their  fishing.  But  the 
watching  Iroquois,  who  had  made  their  way 
through  ice  and  snow  from  the  towns  in  Central 
New  York,  surprised  and  surrounded  them,  and 
hunted  down  fugitives  from  the  bands  so  persist- 
ently that,  of  the  numbers  who  had  gone  to  the 
mainland,  the  Jesuits  knew  of  but  one  who  escaped. 

Their  hearts  were  further  bowed  in  grief  by  the 

news  that  Charles  Gamier  had  been  murdered  early 

in  the  winter  at  St.  Jean  by  the  Iroquois;  and  that 

Noel  Chabanel,  on  his  way  to  Isle  St.  Joseph,  in 

obedience  to  an  order  from  the  Superior,  had  been 

245 


■'''^^•' '-■■'■^1' 


■££UC'  a;£.^'.H- 


vtsstasz 


fi 


i 
1 


1 V  ( 


)l  i 


'If! 

i ; 
ji 


If! 


lii 


I     I 


246    XTbe  IRomance  ot  a  Sesuit  /IDission 

killed  in  the  woods  by  a  renegade  Huron.  Brebeuf 
had  been  called  the  lion  of  the  Huron  mission,  and 
Gamier  the  lamb.  "  But  the  lamb  was  as  fearless 
as  the  lion." 

Before  leaving  Sainte  Marie  on  the  Wye  to  go 
to  his  post  in  the  Tobacco  Nation,  Chabanel  had 
written  to  his  brother  in  France  to  regard  him  as  a 
victim  destined  for  the  fires  of  the  Iroquois.  He 
declared  that,  although  naturally  timid,  he  had  be- 
come wholly  indifferent;  and  believed  that  only  a 
superhuman  power  could  have  wrought  such  a 
change  in  him. 

When  he  had  been  beset  with  temptations  to  beg 
for  a  recall  from  the  mission,  he  had  made  this  vow: 

"  My  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  who,  in  the  admirable 
disposition  of  Thy  paternal  providence,  hast  willed 
that  I,  although  most  unworthy,  should  be  a  co- 
laborer  with  the  holy  apostles  in  this  vineyard  of 
the  Hurons,  I,  Noel  Chabanel,  impelled  by  the  de- 
sire of  fulfilling  Thy  holy  will  in  advancing  the  con- 
version of  the  savages  of  this  land  to  Thy  faith,  do 
vow,  in  the  presence  of  the  most  holy  sacrament  of 
Thy  precious  body  and  blood,  which  is  God's  taber- 
nacle among  men,  to  remain  perpetually  attached 
to  this  mission  of  the  Hurons,  understanding  all 
things  according  to  the  interpretation  and  disposal 
of  the  Superiors  of  the  Society  of  Jesus.  Therefore 
I  entreat  thee  to  receive  me  as  the  perpetual  servant 
of  this  mission,  and  to  render  me  worthy  of  so  sub- 
lime a  ministry.    Amen." 


lit  ] 


Ubc  aSiSQion  Ubmbonct> 


247 


So  he  sealed  his  vow  with  his  blood,  and  rejoiced 
to  give  up  his  life  for  the  faith. 

The  missionaries  could  see  no  prospect  of  any 
improvement  in  the  condition  of  the  islanders;  and 
the  massacre  of  their  companions  on  the  mainland 
increased  the  despondency  of  the  Hurons.  The  In- 
dians held  a  council  and  resolved  to  abandon 
Ahoendoe.  Some  would  disperse  in  the  remote, 
inaccessible  forests;  others  would  seek  a  refuge  in 
the  Grand  Manitoulin  Island;  some  would  try  to 
reach  the  Andastes,  and  others  would  be  wilHng  to 
find  safety  in  adoption  and  incorporation  with  the 
Iroquois. 

Amid  all  this  perplexity  and  distress,  some  hearts 
were  glad.  Victor  Caradeuc's  absence  had  served 
to  turn  his  thoughts  from  Dorothy  to  his  old  love, 
Nialona.  He  had  returned  with  Rene  le  Breton,' 
and  had  renewed  his  suit  to  Nialona  with  so  much 
ardor  and  apparent  sincerity  that  she  had  relent- 
ed, and  they  were  to  be  married  at  an  early  date. 
Washaka  had  become  convinced  that  Hauteroche 
had  never  been  true  to  her,  and  had  accepted  the 
devotion  of  Jules  Venette.  The  two  girls  had  seen 
little  of  Dorothy  for  many  months.  Madame  Cou- 
ture's  lodge  was  far  from  theirs;  Dorothy  was  al- 
ways accompanied  by  one  of  the  Couture  family; 
moreover,  they  had  not  desired  any  intercourse 
with  her;  so  their  few  meetings  had  been  brief  and 
constrained.     But  their  happiness  softened  their 


1 


iS, 


TTpOTya 


)  .  I 

I 

'1 

I 


IV,  ^ 


h 


248    ube  IRonmnce  of  a  ^esnit  AMssfon 

feeling  toward  her,  and  Nialona  sent  her  a  friendly 
notice  of  her  betrothal  to  Caradeuc. 

Rene  le  Breton  was  so  eager  to  return  to  France 
that  he  would  have  willingly  taken  the  risk  of  a  soli- 
tary journey  to  the  French  settlements;  but  he  ac- 
cepted the  advice  of  the  Fathers  to  await  the  de- 
velopment of  their  plans. 

In  May,  two  of  the  chiefs  asked  an  interview  with 
the  Fathers,  and,  addressing  Ragueneau,  begged 
him  to  transport  the  remnant  to  Quebec,  where 
they  would  form  a  church  under  the  protection  of 
the  fort. 

The  Jesuits  were  deeply  moved.  They  held 
many  consultations,  and,  for  forty  hours,  prayed  in 
turn  for  enlightenment.  At  last  they  determined 
to  grant  the  petition,  and  try  to  save  the  remnant 
of  the  Hurons. 

Soon  after  he  heard  the  news,  Caradeuc  waited 
on  the  Superior,  and  begged  him  to  consent  to  his 
marriage  with  Nialona  before  the  departure  from 
the  island.  The  Superior  promised  to  consider  it, 
and  to  give  his  answer  in  a  day  or  two.  In  a  short 
time,  Jules  Venette  appeared,  with  a  plea  that  he 
might  take  Washaka  from  the  island  as  his  wife. 
On  the  evening  of  that  day,  Nialona  sent  a  message 
reminding  the  Superior  that  it  was  the  Month  of 
Mary;  she  had  heard  that  the  marriages  of  that 
month  were  especially  under  the  protection  of  the 
Queen  of  Heaven;  and  since  she  had  first  thought 
of  marriage  she  had  wished  to  be  married  in  May. 


».->i*wwKKrS!5 


Zbc  /IDfssion  Bl)an^one^ 


249 


The  Superior  saw  no  good  reason  for  withhold- 
ing his  consent.  Kishik  was  dead,  Nialona  and 
Washaka  had  been  Hving  with  a  Huron  family,  and 
had  made  many  complaints.  All  present  arrange- 
ments would  soon  be  broken  up;  to  have  the  two 
Christian  girls  under  the  charge  of  their  proper 
protectors  would  relieve  the  Fathers  of  much  anx- 
iety. So  the  consent  was  given,  and  a  few  days 
later,  with  as  much  rejoicing  as  was  possible  under 
the  circumstances,  the  marriages  were  solemnized 
in  the  chapel,  and  a  marriage  feast  was  held  in  a 
grove.  Most  of  the  guests  wore  tattered  and 
scanty  clothing;  it  was  long  since  some  of  them 
had  eaten  a  satisfying  meal;  but  a  special  efifort 
had  been  made  for  this  occasion;  the  hunters  and 
fishermen  had  been  active,  and  no  one  went  away 
hungry. 

Dorothy,  glad  to  forgive,  and  be  on  friendly 
terms  again,  had  been  granted  a  respite  from  her 
duties  with  the  Coutures,  and  had  entered  enthu- 
siastically into  the  festivities.  Her  interest  in  the 
weddings,  and  the  prospect  of  a  change,  gave  her 
new  life. 

The  missionaries  hastened  their  preparations  for 
departure,  lest  the  Iroquois  should  learn  of  their 
purpose  and  lie  in  wait.  On  the  loth  of  June,  they 
began  their  voyage,  with  all  their  French  followers, 
and  about  three  hundred  Hurons. 

"  It  was  not  without  tears,"  wrote  Ragueneau, 
"that  we  left  the  country  c!  our  hopes  and  our 


las 


HMHsawBac<: 


BOS 


J 


'     I 


I 


4 


250    Ube  IRomance  ot  a  Jesuit  /IMasion 

hearts,  where  our  brethren  had  gloriously  shed 
their  blood." 

The  canoes  made  their  way  along  the  shores 
where,  two  years  before,  one  of  the  chief  savag-e 
communities  of  the  continent  had  been  settled. 
Now  all  was  death  and  desolation.  They  steered 
northward,  along  the  eastern  coast  of  the  Georgian 
Bay,  till  they  reached  Lake  Nipissing.  In  all  direc- 
tions, they  found  traces  of  the  Iroquois.  The  ashe? 
of  burnt  wigwams  showed  where  the  Algonquins 
had  dwelt  on  its  shores;  and,  farther  on,  there  was 
a  deserted  fort  built  of  trees,  where  the  Iroquois, 
who  had  caused  this  desolation,  had  spent  the  win- 
ter. Solitude  reigned  along  the  Ottawa;  for  the 
Algonquins  of  Allumette  Island  and  the  adjacent 
shores  had  all  been  killed  or  driven  away. 

"  When  I  came  up  this  great  river,  only  thirteen 
years  ago,"  wrote  Ragucneau,  "1  found  it  bordered 
with  Algonquin  tribes,  who  knew  no  God  and,  in 
their  infidelity,  thought  themselves  gods  on  earth; 
for  they  had  all  they  desired,  abundance  of  fish  and 
game,  and  a  prosperous  trade  with  allied  nations; 
besides,  they  were  the  terror  of  their  enemies.  But 
since  they  have  embraced  the  Faith  and  adored  the 
Cross  of  Christ  He  has  given  them  a  heavy  share  in 
this  cross,  and  made  them  a  prey  to  misery,  torture, 
and  a  cruel  death.  Our  only  consolation  is  that, 
as  they  died  Christians,  they  have  a  part  in  the  in- 
heritance of  the  true  children  of  God,  who  scourg- 
eth  every  one  whom  He  receiveth." 


1 


7 
1 


XXIX 

©orotbi?  lit  Peru 

Dorothy  travelled  in  the  canoe  with  the  Couture 
family;  but  when  the  canoes  landed  anywhere  for 
the  night  she  met  Nialona  and  other  Huron 
women  and  helped  in  the  preparation  for  encamp- 
ment. 

One  evening,  when  they  were  descending  the 
Ottawa  River,  they  went  ashore  for  the  night,  and 
chose  a  pleasant  grove  for  the  camp.  Dorothy, 
with  a  number  of  Huron  women  and  some  boys, 
went  into  the  woods  to  gather  brushwood  for  the 
fires.  Washaka  accompanied  them.  Since  her 
marriage  she  had  assumed  dictatorial  airs  toward 
the  unmarried  or  the  wives  of  Hurons.  She  de- 
sired them  to  address  her  as  Madame  Venette. 

She  appreciated  the  fact  that  marriage  with  a 
Frenchman  had  given  her  a  superior  position.  In 
one  respect,  her  Huron  sisters  had  cause  to  envy 
her,  for  even  the  Christianized  Hurons  retained 
their  savage  custom— which  neither  counsel  nor 
command  of  the  missionaries  had  been  able  to  re- 
move— of  requiring  their  women  to  do  the  most  ar- 

251 


i^ 


lag 


!,'  . 


u  I, 


I 


f'    I 


!' 


in 


252    tibe  IRomance  ot  a  Jesuit  /iDidsfon 

duous  work.  Washaka  stood  apart  and  dictated 
or  reproved,  and  Dorothy,  partly  for  the  sake  of 
peace,  and  also  because  she  was  secretly  amused, 
followed  her  directions. 

Washaka  sat  on  a  mound;  the  women  were  to 
return  to  her  with  their  bundles,  and  all  would  go 
together  to  the  grove.  A  few  moments  after  they 
had  left  her  she  heard  hurrying  footsteps,  and 
Dorothy,  with  young  Bernard  Gautier,  came  to- 
ward her  with  empty  arms. 

"  What,  have  you  brought  nothing?  "  she  ex- 
claimed. 

"  Washaka,  in  a  marshy  place,  we  came  upon 
many  footprints!  They  are  freshly  made!  They 
are  not  of  our  people!  " 

Washaka  sprang  up.  "  Come,  haste  back  to  the 
camp!" 

"  Nay,  but  we  must  warn  the  others,  the  women, 
the  little  boys.  I  go  with  Bernard  to  seek  Mita- 
sog  and  those  with  him.  Haste  you  there  " — she 
pointed  in  the  direction  where  a  number  of  women 
had  gone — "  tell  them,  bring  them  with  you  to  the 
camp." 

"Where  is  your  sense?"  cried  Wash-^^  'mpa- 
tiently.  "  Let  them  see  for  themselves.  iiall  we 
be  caught  in  a  trap?  I  go  to  the  camp." 

So  saying,  she  turned  in  the  direction  of  the 
camp,  and  ran. 

Dorothy  was  terrified,  but  she  would  not  desert 


2Dorotb^  in  peril 


253 


her  friends.  "  Go,  Bernard,  you  your  way,  I  mine. 
Ere  long  we  may  find  them." 

Bernard  hesitated.  The  boy  adored  Dorothy. 
It  was  terrible  to  him  to  leave  her  without  his  pro- 
tection; but  he  knew  that  duty  called  him  to  warn 
the  women  and  children  of  the  danger.  They  had 
rashly  gone  a  long  distance  from  the  camp.  By  the 
time  Washaka  could  give  the  alarm  there,  and  re- 
turn with  guards,  it  might  be  too  late.  So  Dorothy 
and  Bernard  parted  hurriedly,  and  went  on  their 
separate  ways  in  search  of  their  friends. 

Dorothy  went  to  the  east,  Bernard  to  the  west. 
They  knew  not  where  their  foes,  if  foes  they  were, 
might  lurk,  but  they  went  on  firmly,  though  each 
trembled.  Perhaps  the  women  and  children  had 
separated;  that  would  increase  their  difficulties. 

Dorothy  presently  came  to  many  tracks,  appar- 
ently those  of  their  own  party,  in  the  soft  ground, 
and  followed  them.  She  heard  happy  voices  in  the 
distance,  and  recognized  them.  But  before  she 
drew  near  her  friends  she  saw  a  man  coming  in  a 
direction  which  would  presently  cause  him  to  cross 
her  path.  She  crept  under  some  low,  thickly  grow- 
ing bushes,  and  waited.  She  thought  he  had  not 
seen  her,  for  at  the  moment  when  she  caught  sight 
of  him  his  head  was  turned.  He  was  within  a  few 
yards  of  her  when  he  came  on  the  trail  of  her  peo- 
ple. He  examined  the  footprints  carefully,  then 
turned  quickly,  and  went  back  in  the  direction 


t.a.L...l^m'{t 


254  XTbe  IRomancc  ot  a  Bceait  /»fs8fon 


un 


hi 


ii ; 


whence  he  had  come.  He  was  alone,  he  could  not 
risk  an  encounter  with  numbers.  As  soon  as  he  was 
at  a  sufficient  distance,  Dorothy  crept  from  her 
hiding  place,  and  ran  forward  on  the  trail.  Before 
long,  she  saw  Mitasog  with  some  women  and  chil- 
dren. They  had  made  up  theij"  bundles  and  were 
returning. 

She  held  up  her  hand  in  warning,  and  then  put  it 
CO  her  lips.  They  understood  the  gesture  of  silence, 
and  lowered  their  voices.  The  sun  was  low,  and, 
though  the  June  day  is  long,  the  light  in  the  woods 
was  dim.  They  could  not  see  how  white  her  face 
was  until  she  was  beside  them.  Then  in  her  joy  at 
being  with  friends,  she  swayed,  and  Mitasog  put 
out  his  arm  to  hold  her. 

"  We  must  haste  home,"  she  gasped.  "  There 
are  many  footprints  of  strange  people.  I  have 
seen  a  man  who  is  not  of  our  party.  He  has  come 
on  our  trail.  He  has  gone  for  his  comrades.  Mita- 
sog, must  we  return  chat  way?  Or  is  it  possible  for 
you  to  guide  us  back  by  another  path?  ' 

Mitasog  hesitated.  Should  they  return  by  the 
way  they  had  come  they  might  walk  into  the  arms 
of  the  enemy  awaiting  them.  Yet  by  striking 
through  the  woods  in  a  new  direction  they  might 
wander  far,  and  be  long  in  finding  the  camp. 

They  consulted  hurriedly,  and  decided  to  try  the 
new  way,  trusting  that  Bernard  and  his  party  would 
do  the  same,  and  not  attempt  to  join  them. 


Dorotbi?  in  pertl 


255 


y 


"  V 


We  must  keep  near  together,"  said  Dorothy; 
"  for  darkness  comes  'ast." 

They  hastened  on;  but  saw  no  sign  of  the  open 
space  beyond  the  woods  in  which  their  camp  had 
been  estabhshed;  far  as  their  eyes  could  pierce 
there  was  an  endless  succession  of  trees.  There  was 
a  bend  in  the  river  a  little  way  beyond  the  camp, 
of  which  they  knew  nothing,  and  they  had  gone 
considerably  below  the  direct  line  to  tlie  tents. 

Abwi,  one  of  the  women,  laid  her  hand  on  Mita- 
sog's  arm.    "  Hark!  they  follow!  " 

They  paused  but  a  moment  before  Mitasog's 
keen  ear  discerned  the  tramp  of  many  feet. 

He  held  up  his  hand  for  silence,  "  Go  on.  I  wait, 
I  look,  then  I  tell  you." 

He  went  back  a  few  yards,  and  peered  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  sound.  Though  it  was  dark  he 
could  see  that  those  who  followed  were  all  men. 
The  hope  that  it  was  Bernard  and  his  party  was 
dispelled.  It  was  unlikely  that  any  of  their  own 
people  would  come  to  them  from  that  direction. 
He  could  not  afford  to  take  chances.  He  hastened 
to  the  group.  "  It  is  dark.  I  see  not  clear.  There 
be  many.  Are  they  friends?  Would  they  not  call 
to  us?  They  are  silent;  run,  for  life.  Run  side  by 
side." 

They  ran,  as  he  had  directed;  but  some  outran 
others;  the  trees  grew  so  thickly,  there  were  so 
many  fallen  ones,  and  there  was  so  much  under- 


S£S 


.' 


2S^    Ubc  IRomance  ot  a  3csu(t  /iDfssion 

brush  in  the  way,  that  it  was  impossible  to  run  side 
by  side.  Dorothy  had  not  strength  to  keep  the 
pace  of  her  companions.  Her  heart  beat  fast,  her 
breath  came  with  difficulty,  there  was  a  sharp  pain 
in  her  chest.  She  felt  as  if  she  should  suffocate, 
and  knew  she  could  not  go  on.  Her  only  safety 
was  in  hiding  before  the  pursuers  came  loo  near, 
so  she  crept  aside  and  under  a  heap  of  logs,  and 
waited  trembling. 

The  others  went  on.  If  they  knew  she  had 
dropped  behind,  they  knew  they  dare  not  wait  for 
her.  She  heard  the  tramp  of  feet  as  the  men  passed 
her.  S'le  was  safe  for  the  time  at  least.  They  had 
gone  in  pursuit  of  the  party. 

In  a  few  moments  she  heard  a  woman's  shrill 
cries  and  the  shouts  of  men.  She  believed  they  had 
captured  Panasawa,  who  had  sprained  her  foot 
some  weeks  before,  and  had  several  times  fallen 
back  in  the  race.  The  cries  continued,  and  came 
nearer.  Dorothy  crept  to  the  edge  of  her  thicket 
and  peered  out.  Two  men  were  returning  with  a 
girl  and  a  little  boy.  It  was  so  dark  now  that  she 
could  not  see  the  girl's  face  clearly;  but  she  recog- 
nized Panasawa's  voice,  and  believed  that  the  boy 
was  her  brother,  Nigik. 

The  boy  was  in  front  of  his  captor,  and  did  not 
attempt  to  escape;  he  was  evidently  aware  that 
submission  to  his  fate  was  the  wiser  course.  But 
from  time  to  time  he  gave  a  howl  of  pain  when  the 
savage  kicked  or  pinched  him  by  way  of  diversion. 


1 


Dorotb^  in  ipcril 


257 


The  poor  girl  was  struggling*  desperately,  at 
which  the  man  who  held  her  laughed  in  a  deep,  gut- 
tural tone.  More  than  once  he  released  his  hold, 
and  she  attempted  to  run  from  him,  only  to  be 
caught  again.  "Alas,  alas!  unhappy  Panasawa," 
moaned  Dorothy  to  herself.  She  had  no  hope  that 
the  captors  would  be  overtaken  by  the  Frenchmen 
or  Hurons.  Panasawa  would  be  carried  far  away 
by  the  savages,  and  no  doubt  would  be  compelled 
to  become  the  wife  of  one  of  them.  It  was  un- 
likely that  they  would  put  her  to  death  or  torture 
her.  The  boy  was  a  fine  little  fellow;  they  would 
adopt  him  into  their  tribe.  But  would  not  Pana- 
sawa rather  die  than  be  carried  away  from  her  own 
people,  and  from  Wenenkin,  whom  she  loved? 

The  cries  died  in  the  distance,  and  Dorothy  crept 
a  little  way  from  her  retreat,  ready  to  dart  in  again 
at  the  first  sound.  She  Hstened  long,  not  daring 
to  creep  out.  It  seemed  to  her  that  night  was  far 
advanced  before  she  heard  voices  and  footsteps, 
and  men  went  hurriedly  past.  It  was  too  dark  now 
to  recognize  by  their  appearance  if  they  were 
friends  or  foes;  but  she  knew  by  their  voices  that 
they  were  not  her  own  people.  She  thought  their 
numbers  had  decreased.  They  were  hurrying  so 
that  she  had  some  hope  the  Frenchmen  were  in 
pursuit;  but  she  waited  long  and  saw  no  one. 

What  if  her  people,  believing  that  she  had  been 
captured,  had  broken  up  the  camp,  and  were  now 


>'"""  "'■> 


!i'! 


"il 


I-  1 


I 


i\ 


I 


■!i 


i  ; 


I  I 
1  i 


258    UDc  IRomancc  ot  a  Sesult  flDtssion 

far  down  the  river?  If  they  had  learned  that  there 
was  a  large  encampment  of  the  enemy  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, they  dare  not  wait.  She  must  not  lie 
there  and  lose  all  chance  of  rescue.  She  grew  des- 
perate, and  crept  from  her  hiding  place.  She  saw 
no  one,  heard  no  sound.  While  she  had  lain  under 
the  logs,  a  snake  had  darted  over  her  hand,  and  she 
had  touched  a  soft,  furry  thing,  probably  a  squirrel, 
that  had  run  from  her.  The  horror  of  lying  in  that 
place  was  almost  as  great  as  the  fear  of  venturing 
forth.  She  followed  the  trail,  peering  in  the  dark- 
ness to  find  the  cteps,  and,  ere  long,  came  upon  an 
open  space  where  dead  bodies  lay.  There  had  been 
a  fight  in  the  woods;  her  people  had  met  the  sav- 
ages. There  were  neither  women  nor  children 
there;  probably  they  had  escaped.  It  was  lighter 
in  the  clearing,  and  she  saw  one  white  face.  When 
she  stooped  she  recognized  a  French  soldier,  Louis 
le  Due.  So  far  as  she  could  see,  there  was  no  other 
Frenchman.  But  she  feared  to  remain  in  that  place 
of  horror.  She  heard  no  moan  of  the  wounded. 
All  were  dead. 

She  followed  the  trail  through  the  forest  till  she 
came  to  the  river.  She  saw  its  gleaming  before 
she  reached  it.  But  there  was  no  camp,  no  canoe, 
no  sign  of  life.    She  was  alone  in  the  wilderness! 

The  discovery  overcame  her;  she  sank  on  the 
ground,  and  lay  for  a  brief  time  in  blissful  uncon- 
sciousness.   With  returning  sense  came  the  horror 


-^«>r 


Dorotbi?  in  peril 


259 


) 


of  her  situation.  She  rose  and  ran  to  the  bank, 
looked  up  and  down,  and  saw  no  one.  But  it  was  a 
winding  river  at  this  place;  beyond  that  deep  bend 
she  might  find  her  people.  She  ran  on,  hoping, 
fearing.  In  the  dim  light  of  the  open  country,  the 
scattered  trees,  waving  in  the  wind,  took  human 
shape. 

Presently,  before  her,  on  the  ground,  she  saw  a 
writhing  form.  She  stood  still,  unable  to  move. 
At  first,  she  could  not  make  out  whether  it  was  a 
wild  beast  or  a  human  being. 

A  hand  was  raised.  It  was  a  man ;  but  he  did  not 
rise.  He  had  seen  her,  had  evidently  motioned  to 
her.  Had  he  wished  to  do  her  harrr  he  might 
easily  have  caught  her.  It  occurred  to  her  that  he 
was  wounded.  She  went,  trembling,  a  few  steps 
nearer,  and  he  uttered  something  in  a  guttural 
voice  that  she  did  not  understand.  He  began  to 
drag  himself  slowly  toward  her,  moving  forward  by 
the  aid  of  one  arm,  so  that  she  was  convinced  that 
he  was  badly  hurt.  When  he  came  near  enough  to 
see  her  face,  he  shrank  back.  He  had  never  seen  a 
white  woman,  and  was  terrified.  She  went  up  to 
him,  and  spoke  to  him  gently.  A  trail  of  blood  was 
behind  him,  and  he  was  still  bleeding  from  wounds 
in  one  arm  and  his  side. 

She  was  roughly  dressed  in  a  hempen  garment 
that  had  been  made  in  the  wilderness.  She  had  no 
linen  with  which  to  bind  his  wounds,  but  she  tried 


^ 


I 


h 


IV 


i^  V 


'y 
fl 

'i 


II 


"S 


260    xcbc  "Komance  of  a  Jesuit  /ftisaion 

to  stanch  the  blood  by  tearing  off  strips  from  a 
woollen  petticoat  that  she  wore,  though  the  June 
day  had  been  warm.  She  succeeded  in  binding 
up  the  arm  so  as  to  reduce  the  flow  of  blood,  then 
ran  down  to  the  river,  and  came  back  with  as  much 
water  as  she  could  carry  in  her  hands.  He  drank 
it  gratefully,  and  she  returned  for  more.  For  a 
short  time,  in  ministering  to  him,  she  lost  the 
sense  of  her  own  danger.  But  it  came  upon  her 
again,  and  she  pointed  to  the  distance  with  her 
hand,  to  make  him  understand  that  she  must  leave 
him.  He  held  her  dress,  but  she  pulled  it  gently 
from  him,  and  he  was  too  weak  to  resist. 

As  she  ran  along  the  bank,  looking  vainly  for 
her  companions,  three  men  sprang  from  a  thicket. 
With  a  wild  cry,  she  jumped  into  the  river,  which 
was  not  deep  in  that  spot.  She  expected  them  to 
follow  her  instantly;  but  they  stood  on  the  bank 
irresolute,  as  if  transfixed  with  wonder.  There 
flashed  across  her  mind  a  recollection  of  the  awe 
with  which  the  Hurons  had  at  first  gazed  at  her; 
perhaps  they  thought  she  was  some  supernatural 
being.  She  hastened  down  the  stream,  but  was 
soon  aware  that  they  were  following  her.  She 
shrieked  wildly  for  help.  Some  one  of  her  own 
might  hear.    But  the  men  were  almost  behind  her! 

She  struggled  desperately  on,  but  it  appeared  to 
her  that  she  was  not  moving.  She  tried  to  scream 
again,  but  her  voice,  as  in  a  nightmare,  would  make 


. 


I 


2)orotbi?  in  peril 


261 


^     k 


i 


no  sound.  Then  she  pUtnged  suddenly  into  deep 
water.  She  had  gone  over  a  shoal,  and  felt  her- 
self sinking.  She  knew  how  to  swim,  but  seemed 
unable  to  move,  to  help  herself.  A  man  seized 
her,  her  senses  forsook  her,  and  she  struggled  no 
more. 

After  awhile  she  had  a  dim  consciousness  of 
shouts,  angry  voices,  and  a  clash  of  arms;  but  it 
seemed  as  something  far  away. 

When  she  came  to  herself,  she  realized  that  dawn 
was  breaking,  that  she  was  lying  in  a  canoe,  and 
that  someone  was  paddling  rapidly.  She  dreaded 
to  open  her  eyes,  for,  though  her  senses  were 
dimmed,  she  recalled  the  events  of  the  night  suf- 
ficiently to  turn  her  cold  with  horror. 

She  heard  voices,  and  they  came  to  her  ear  with 
a  familiar  sound.  Surely  the  speaker  was  Rene  le 
Breton.  Was  it  possible  that  all  that  had  passed 
had  been  but  a  terrible  dream?  Her  head  was 
resting  on  something  soft.  Would  the  savages 
be  so  kind  to  her?  She  opened  her  eyes  and  looked, 
and  in  her  joy  she  almost  became  unconscious 
again,  for  her  companions  were  one  of  the  priests, 
Rene  and  Bernard  Gautier. 

She  gave  a  little  cry  of  joy,  and  tried  to  raise  her- 
self; but  fell  back. 

"  Mademoiselle  Dorothee,"  cried  Bernard  joy- 
fully, "  O,  she  is  recovering!  She  will  not  die." 
"  Did  I  dream?  "  she  asked.    "  Did  no  savages 


Tr-r^i' '..■".'—• 


IJ 


H 


I 

If! 


1.  !l. 


,'!!; 


h  ill' 


1, 


■«i 


i; 


262    xTbe  IRomance  ot  a  Jesuit  AMsdion 


pursue  us?    Have  I  been  in  a  fever  and  raved?    Or 


was  it  true?  " 

"  It  was  true,"  said  Bernard.  "  You  were  lost. 
We  had  sought  you  in  vain.  Some  were  hopeless; 
they  believed  you  had  been  carried  far  away;  that 
to  seek  further  would  be  useless;  the  women,  the 
children,  must  be  carried  to  a  place  of  safety.  They 
went  on  down  the  river.  We  and  others  remained 
to  search.  We  had  heard  voices  of  the  men  on  the 
bank.  We  were  in  hiding  in  our  canoe  'neath  over- 
hanging trees.  When  we  heard  your  cries  we 
made  no  answer,  but  darted  forth  and  rescued 
you." 

**  The  Indians,  where  are  they?  " 

*'  The  three  who  pursued  you  He  dead,"  said 
Rene.  "  Nibishi  and  Kidjatik  were  not  far  from  us, 
and  they  came  to  our  help.  They  hastened  to  the 
rest  to  announce  your  safety.  We  hope  soon  to 
reach  them,  then  we  must  all  haste  on  together. 
We  dare  not  stop  to  rest,  to  eat,  for  who  knows 
whether  a  large  force  may  not  be  encamped  behind 
us." 

"  Are  all  safe?  "  asked  Dorothy  anxiously. 

Rene  did  not  answer. 

"  Tell  me,  I  must  know.  How  many  have  we 
lost?" 

"  Five  Huron  men  and  Louis  le  Due  in  the  fight 
in  the  woods,"  answered  Bernard.  "  The  other 
men  are  safe." 


2)orotbi?  m  peril 


263 


"  And  the  women?  " 

"  The  women,  the  children,  whom  I  sought  are 
safe,"  said  Bernard. 

"  But  of  those  whom  I  warned  two  were  taken,  a 
woman  and  a  boy.  Was  it  Panasawa?  Was  Nigik 
with  her?    Were  they  rescued  again?  " 

No  one  answered,  and  Dorothy  knew  what  their 
silence  meant. 

"  We  sought  long,"  said  the  priest.  "  Gladly 
would  we  have  roamed  the  woods  and  given  our 
lives,  if  need  be,  for  their  safety.  But  that  would 
have  been  madness.  We  have  many  helpless  wom- 
en, little  children,  feeble  old  people  with  us.  We 
dare  not  expose  all  to  danger  of  death  or  captivity 
for  the  two,  though  we  have  dearly  loved  the  two. 
Should  part  of  our  force  remain,  both  divisions 
would  be  too  weak  to  resist  attack.  Our  hearts 
were  torn;  yet  we  must  go  on,  and  leave  them  to 
their  fate." 

Dorothy  moaned.  She  understood  the  neces- 
sity; but  it  seemed  terrible. 

The  priest  crossed  himself.  "  The  hand  of  God 
is  in  it.  Panasawa  is  a  Christian.  The  truths  that 
she  has  learned  she  will  teach  her  captors.  Even  the 
Iroquois,  barbarous  though  they  be,  do  not  ill- 
treat  the  women  captives,  unless  in  the  rage  for 
blood  in  time  of  battle.  Do  not  grieve  for  her. 
We  will  pray  for  her  continually  that  she  may  have 
grace  to  testify  for  the  Faith,  and  lead  her  captors 
as  captives  for  Christ  and  the  Cross." 


264    Ubc  IRomancc  ot  a  Scsuit  /Dission 

Dorothy  sighed,  and  covered  her  face.  Pan- 
asavva  was  at  least  as  far  advanced  in  civiHzation  as 
Washaka,  and  she  had  a  finer  nature.  She  had  been 
surrounded  by  as  much  refinement  as  was  possible 
in  that  wilderness;  the  gross  habits  of  the  savages 
would  be  repellent  to  her;  her  lot  was  hard. 

Presently  she  remembered  the  wounded  man 
whom  she  had  left  on  the  bank.  She  raised  her- 
self, and  told  the  story.  "  Did  you  find  him?  Is 
he  dead?" 

"  We  found  him,"  said  the  priest.  "  He  was  dy- 
ing. While  Monsieur  le  Breton  sought  to  restore 
you,  I  baptized  the  man.  He  understood  me,  and 
seemed  willing  and  grateful.  The  others  also, 
those  whose  Hves  we  were  compelled  to  take  to 
save  yours,  were  baptized  before  they  breathed 
their  last,  and  I  commended  their  souls  to  God. 
Grieve  not,  but  rather  rejoice.  From  a  brief  pain 
here  they  passed  to  an  eternity  of  bliss;  for  may 
we  not  hope  that  from  them,  who  sinned  in  their 
ignorance,  the  pains  of  purgatory  have  been  with- 
held? " 

"  Hark,"  cried  Bernard,  "  I  hear  the  voice  of 
Monsieur  Caradeuc.    Our  friends  are  at  hand." 

And  in  a  few  moments,  rounding  a  bend  of  the 
river,  they  came  in  sight  of  the  fleet  of  canoes. 


^ 


Af.' 


:ii 


I 


XXX 

an  '(Sincxpcctct>  Disftor 

The  sunlight  sparkling  on  the  rippling  water,  the 
foliage  waving  in  the  soft  June  air,  the  birds  sing- 
ing from  the  shore,  spoke  only  of  life  and  joy,  and 
appeared  to  Dorothy  in  pitiful  contrast  with  the 
horrors  of  the  previous  day.    She  had  been  trans- 
ferred to  the  canoe  of  Nialona  and  Caradeuc;  with 
the  lively  Couture  children  she  would  have  had  no 
opportunity  to  rest.    She  lay,  dozing,  and  awaking 
in  nervous  tremor.     Nialona,  too,  was  sad;  but 
many  seemed  to  have  already  forgotten  Panasawa, 
and  to  have  no  thought  of  danger.     Not  a  sign  of 
the  enemy  was  seen,  and  the  missionaries  and'war- 
riors  hoped  that  the  force  had  been  small,  and  that 
the  band  had  retreated,  not  daring  to  venture  with- 
in sight  again. 

Since  the  time  of  the  destruction  of  St.  Louis, 
more  than  a  year  before,  there  had  been  unremit- 
ting watchfulness  against  an  Iroquois  attack;  every 
member  of  the  party  had  lived  so  long  in  the  pres- 
ence of  danger  that  it  had  in  a  measure  lost  its  ter- 
ror.    True,  for  the  greater  part  of  the  time  they 

265 


m 


266    zbc  IRomance  ot  a  5edutt  /iMddion 


J'  i 


,;  .1 


1  -i 


r 


I. 

f 

)'  ' ' 


,» 


had  had  the  protection  of  the  fort,  they  were  now 
in  an  exposed  position  on  the  water;  yet  the  peril 
that  might  be  so  near  did  not  sufiice  to  check 
youthful  gayety.  The  gloom  of  starvation  and  dis- 
ease that  had  enveloped  them  on  the  island  had 
passed.  Before  long  they  would  reach  a  place 
where  they  would  be  abundantly  fed,  so  it  was  not 
necessary  to  hoard  so  carefully  the  fast  diminishing 
stores.  Besides,  as  they  descended  the  river,  they 
caught  fresh  fish  in  abundance,  and  from  time  to 
time  parties  of  hunters  went  ashore  for  game,  and 
joined  the  fleet  farther  down. 

At  sunset  of  the  day  after  the  attack,  the  party 
ventured  ashore  to  encamp  for  the  night.  Most  of 
them  were  very  weary,  for  they  had  paddled  night 
and  day,  the  men  taking  short  snatches  of  sleep  by 
turns  in  the  canoes.  A  large  force  was  detailed  to 
keep  watch;  but  no  enemy  appeared,  and  the  next 
day  and  the  day  following,  they  went  on  without 
alarm. 

Dorothy  began  to  ask  anxiously  if  they  would 
soon  arrive  at  Quebec.  It  seemed  to  her  that  as 
they  had  been  so  long  on  the  way,  they  must  be 
near  their  destination,  and  it  was  evident  that  she 
had  something  on  her  mind.  One  evening,  when 
the  tents  were  being  set  up,  she  sought  Rene  le 
Breton.  "  Monsieur  le  Breton,"  she  began, 
"  Brother  Rene,  I " 

"  What    troubles   you,   Sister   Dorothy? "    he 


I 


an  TDlneipccteb  IDfsitor 


267 


asked  kindly.  "  You  are  pale.  What  has  hap- 
pened? " 

"  Nothing  has  happened.  It  is  but  that — I 
would  speak  with  the  Superior — before — we  arrive 
in  the  white  settlement — I  will  inform  him.  I  have 
withheld  it  from  him.  I  must  tell  him  now.  And 
— Brother  Rene,  I  am  afraid." 

He  smiled,  but  there  was  sympathy  in  the  smile. 
"  I  perceive  you  are  afraid,  little  Sister  Dorothy, 
but  do  not  fear,  he  will  not  be  harsh  with  you.  Is 
it  some  foolish  thing  you  have  done?  You  are  very 
young.    He  will  remember  that." 

"  I — I  cannot  see  that  I  did  wrong;  but  I  know 
not  what  he  will  think.  I  go  to  him  to  plead  with 
him  not  to  give  me  up — to " 

"  Shall  I  find  him,  and  bring  him  to  you;  or,  if  he 
is  alone,  take  you  to  him?  " 

She  gasped.  Her  timidity  was  pitiful.  Rene 
could  not  understand  w'hy  she  had  always  held  the 
Superior  in  such  dread.  He  did  not  know  how  she, 
who  had  rarely  heard  a  harsh  word  in  her  early 
years,  had  been  intimidated  by  cruelty  and  injus- 
tice, so  that  there  were  few  whom  she  did  not  fear. 

"  Yes,  go,  go  to  him  quickly,  while  I  have  deter- 
mined that  I  will  do  it." 

He  returned  presently.  "  The  Superior  will  see 
you  at  once.    Come  with  me." 

As  they  went,  he  saw  her  color  come  and  go. 
He  caught  her  hand,  and  held  it  in  his  strong 


268    zhc  IRomance  of  a  Result  /BMsslon 


i: 


t 


it: 


grasp,  as  an  assurance  of  sympathy.  It  was  sncli  a 
slender,  delicate  hand.  "  Poor  little  Dorothy,  be 
brave,"  he  said  softly. 

"  I  will,"  she  answered  resolutely. 

But  when  she  stood  in  Father  Ragueneau's  pres- 
ence, all  her  resolution  seemed  to  desert  her  again, 
and  she  gave  Rene  an  appealing  glance,  as  if  to  beg 
him  not  to  leave  her.  He  would  gladly  have  re- 
mained, but  he  knew  he  must  go;  so  he  bowed  and 
went  away,  without  another  word. 

"  Be  seated,  my  daughter,"  said  Ragueneau. 
The  seat  was  but  a  log,  and  the  roof  a  maple-tree. 

Dorothy  obeyed,  but  said  nothing. 

"  You  wished  to  see  me,  my  child.  You  have 
something  to  tell  me." 

"  I  have.  Father."  She  hesitated,  then  plunged 
in  desperately.  "  Father,  if,  if  you  should  find  that 
— that  someone  wanted  to  marry  me " 

She  stopped  again,  Ragueneau's  face  had  grown 
s^ern.  He  believed  she  had  come  to  make  a  plea 
for  Leon,  whom  she  expected  to  meet  in  Quebec. 

"  O,  Father,  do  not  be  angry  witn  me.  If — if 
you  forsake  me,  to  whom  shall  I  look  for  help? 
Surely  you  would  not  give  me  up  to  him,  to  them? 
You  could  not  think  it  right  that  I  should  be  forced 
to  marry  against  my  will?  " 

"  Forced  to  marry  against  your  will,  child!  Has 
any  man  here  dared  to  make  you  believe  that?  " 

"  No,  no,  not  here.    It  was — to  escape  marriage 


!| 


I 


i 


ii 
# 


■i 


Bn  TUnexpecteb  IDtsitor 


269 


^(^ 
1 


I 
i 


— that  I  fled.  Father,  do  not  blame  me.  I  had  been 
parted  from  all  I  loved — the  sea  between  me  and 
those  who  lived — the  grave  holding  those  whom 
death  had  taken.  In  a  strange  land,  without  one 
true  friend — they — they  rvbo  said  they  were  my 
protectors — sought  to  compel  me  to  marry  one 
whose  very  voice  made  me  sluulder.  Father,  I 
could  not.  Rather  would  I  have  died.  I — I  es- 
caped— I  found  refuge  with  you — do  not — do  not 
give  me  up." 

She  had  forgotten  her  fear  in  her  earnestness. 
She  stood  before  him,  her  fa'^.e  flvislicd,  her  eyes 
bright,  her  hands  clasped  in  entreaty.  He  was 
much  moved;  but  he  said  very  gravely,  "  My  dvh], 
if  this  story  is  true,,  why  did  you  not  speak  of  it  long 
ere  this?  " 

'*  Father — I  could  not.  I — feared  you  would 
compel  me  to  return  to  them." 

"  Nor  it  you  have  indeed  told  me  the  exact 
trufn.'' 

Her  face  blazed.  She  drew  herself  up  proudly. 
**  Father,  T  would  not  He.  Had  I  wished  to  lie  to 
you,  to  deceive,  could  I  not  have  woven  a  tale? 
Have  I  ever  done  so?    It  is  true,  true,  true  " 

"  Then,  do  not  fear,  my  daughter,  that  we  would 
be  in  accord  with  any  who  would  force  you  to  wed 
unwillingly.  The  holy  sacrament  of  marriage 
should  be  sanctified  by  mutual  love." 

"  1  thank  you,  Father,"  she  said  fervently. 


n 


h: 


! 


27^^    TTbc  IRomance  of  a  Sesutt  flDiseion 

*'  Nov/,  tell  me  further,  child " 

His  question  was  cut  short.  Two  Frenchmen 
burst  in.  "  Father,  footprints,  the  ashes  of  fires, 
have  been  discovered.  The  tents  have  been  set 
up.  We  aie  sent  to  beg  you  to  join  in  a  conference 
in  yonder  grove.  Shall  we  embark  again?  Or  shall 
we  venture  to  remain  here  for  the  night?  " 

After  an  anxious  consultation,  the  missionaries 
and  their  men  decided  to  remain  on  land.  The 
search  of  the  scouts  in  the  neighborhood  resulted 
in  no  more  discoveries.  By  going  down  the  river, 
they  were  as  likely  to  come  upon  the  enemy  as  by 
remaining  where  they  were. 

Sentries  stood  guard  all  night,  and  there  were 
wakeful  eyes  and  anxious  hearts  in  the  tents.  Dur- 
ing the  night,  the  watchers  thought  they  saw  forms 
flitting  among  the  trees,  or  heard  the  crackling  of 
branches,  but  no  attack  was  made.  Yet  the  wily 
enemy  might  follow  them  covertly  for  days,  pre- 
paring for  a  more  effective  assault. 

Morning  dawned  balmy  and  fair.  They  had 
breakfasted,  and  were  making  ready  to  break  up  the 
camp.  Dorothy  took  up  a  jar  containing  boiled 
maize,  which  was  to  serve  the  Couture  children  for 
provision  during  the  day.  She  had  just  left  the 
tent,  to  carry  her  jar  to  the  Couture  canoe,  when, 
not  knowing  why  she  did  so,  she  turned  to  peer 
into  the  forest. 

In  another  moment,  those  who  watched  her  were 


Bn  TUneipecteb  lDi»itor 


271 


he 

n, 

ler 

re 


1 


almost  paralyzed  with  a  terror  that  bade  fair  to  be- 
come a  panic  among  the  women.  "  The  Iroquois! 
The  Iroquoir.!  She  sees  the  Iroquois!  "  was  the 
thought  of  all,  for  she  had  dashed  the  vessel  on  the 
ground,  and  stood,  eyes  staring,  arms  thrown  up- 
ward, then  outstretched,  as  if  her  brain  had  been 
turned  by  fear. 

In  another  moment,  the  startled  expression  had 
changed  to  ecstasy,  and  with  a  cry  of  joy  which 
those  who  heard  it  never  forgot,  a  cry  that  rang 
out  exultant,  and  was  echoed  through  the  arches 
of  the  forest,  she  darted  through  the  trees  that 
bordered  the  clearing,  "  Lion,  my  Lion!  " 

The  Superior  heard  the  cry,  and  hastened  to  the 
spot.  Frenchmen  and  Indians,  all  the  Fathers, 
gathered,  and  peered  to  see  that  strange  meeting. 

The  Superior  heard  a  young  man's  voice  thrill 
out,  **  Dorothy,  my  darling,  my  own  Dorothy." 

The  words  were  in  Eng'.ish,  the  young  man's 
dress  was  that  of  a  foreigner;  yet  Ragueneau  was 
convinced  that  it  was  Leon.  Had  she  not  called 
him  by  name?  Her  arms  were  about  his  neck,  and 
he  held  her  clasped  to  liis  heart.  The  brown  head 
bowed  to  the  fairer  one  was  surely  Leon's  head.  In 
their  joy  at  meeling,  they  had  been  heedless  of  the 
authority  of  the  Church,  of  all  the  world  save  them- 
selves. 

Ragueneau  stepped  up  and  laid  his  hand  on  the 
young  man's  arm  with  a  stern  grip,  "  Leon  de 
Charolais,  how  have  you  dared " 


f 


I  i 


1 1 

! 


ii 


% 


272    XCbe  IRomance  ot  a  Jesuit  jflDlsslon 

The  youth  still  clasped  Dorothy,  who,  laughing 
and  sobbing,  hid  her  face  on  his  breast;  but  he 
raised  his  head,  and  disclosed  a  blushing,  though 
unabashed,  and  happy  countenance 

The  Superior  stepped  back  in  amazement.  The 
brown  eyes  that  looked  so  frankly  into  his  were 
like  Leon's  eyes.  In  face  and  figure  the  man  bore  a 
resemblance  to  Leon,  and  yet,  on  nearer  view,  he 
differed  from  him  strikingly. 

"  Young  man,  who  are  you?  " 

"  My  name,  Reverend  Father,  is  Godfrey  Lyon 
Dermount.  Pardon  me  for  my  lack  of  courtesy. 
I  was  unmindful  of  all  save  one.  Yet  had  you  come 
suddenly  face  to  face  with  her  whom  you  loved, 
from  whom  you  had  been  separated  for  dreary 
years,  you,  too,  might  have  so  forgotten." 

The  voice  of  his  Dorothy  piped  from  its  nest, 
"  Lion,  the  Superior  is  a  priest,  how  could  he?  " 

The  young  man  laughed,  "  Ah,  I  know  that  the 
Reverend  Father's  bride  is  the  Church;  he  will  par- 
don me  that  I  cannot  choose  my  words  with  dis- 
cretion." 

Dorothy  escaped  from  the  restraining  arm,  and 
revealed  a  face  rosy  with  blushes,  and  glorified  with 
joy. 

As  they  stood  there,  a  company  of  men  appeared 
from  the  forest.  In  that  band  of  strangers,  Rague- 
neau's  party  presently  recognized  familiar  faces — 
two  Hurons  who  had  left  the  Isle  of  St.  Joseph  in 


,1 , 

it! 


Bn  XHnexpectcD  IDisftor 


273 


the  autumn  with  Bressani.  The  truth  flashed  on 
them.  They  had  waited  in  vain  for  the  reinforce- 
ments that  Bressani  had  set  out  to  bring;  they  had 
come  too  late  to  prevent  the  abandonment  of  the 
mission. 

Presently  they  saw  Bressani's  rugged  form.  He 
was  hastening  toward  Ragueneau. 

The  Superior's  eyes  were  fixed  on  one  who  stood 
apait,  with  drawn  and  haggard  face. 

Leon  de  Charolais  had  witnessed  the  meeting, 
and  it  had  cut  him  to  the  heart. 


i 


XXXI 

Xcfon'0  Succesdtul  Quest 

Bressani,  forty  well-armed  Frenchmen,  and  the 
Hurons  who  had  accompanied  him  in  the  autumn 
from  Isle  St.  Joseph,  were  on  their  way  to  the  island 
for  the  defence  of  the  mission.  The  missionaries  had 
been  unable  to  send  word  of  its  abandonment. 
When  the  newcomers  saw  the  footprints  of 
Ragueneau's  party,  they  also  feared  that  enemies 
were  at  hand,  and  kept  watch.  Early  in  the  morn- 
ing, a  scout  from  Ragueneau's  encampment,  who 
had  ventured  farther  than  his  companions,  came 
suddenly  on  a  former  comrade;  there  were  hurried 
explanations,  and  he  *vas  taken  into  Bressani's 
presence.  He  informed  the  leader  of  the  abandon- 
ment of  the  mission ;  and,  knowing  that  danger  was 
not  near,  remained  to  breakfast,  and  then  guided 
the  band  to  the  camp  of  their  friends.  Godfrey, 
impatient  io  meet  Dorothy,  whom  he  had  not  ex- 
pected to  see  so  soon,  and  reckless  of  consequences, 
went  in  advance. 

The  missionaries  held  a  conference,  and  decided 

to  remain  in  camp  for  the  day.     On  the  morrow, 

they  would  start  on  the  return  journey. 

274 


I 


X^on's  Succcsstul  iS^uest 


275 


Godfrey  and  Dorothy  wandered  tog-ether.  The 
Superior's  only  restriction  was  that  they  should  not 
stray  too  far  from  the  camp.  They  tried  to  with- 
draw from  the  many  curious  eyes;  but  that  was  no 
easy  matter;  and  they  were  too  happy  to  be  much 
disturbed  by  peering  faces. 

Leon  was  beset  by  questions,  but  would  reveal 
nothing'.  If  Dorothy  wished  to  tell  her  story,  they 
would  hear  it  from  her  own  lips.  She  had  much  to 
say  to  her  lover;  but  later,  he  believed,  she  would 
find  time  to  talk  with  her  girl  friends. 

The  Hurons  were  filled  with  admiration  for  the 
handsome,  well-dressed  stranger.  For  months, 
their  soldiers  and  traders  had  been  clad  in  such  garb 
as  they  could  manufacture  in  the  wilderness. 

Later  in  the  day,  the  two  young  men  met  the 
Superior  and  Father  Bressani  in  a  spot  apart. 
Ragueneau  had  directed  that  they  should  not  be 
disturbed.  Godfrey  told  Dorothy's  story  up  to  the 
time  of  their  separation.  He  spoke  in  French, 
without  much  difficulty. 

"  Have  you  discovered  the  secret  of  her  parent- 
age? Does  your  father  consent  to  your  marriage?  " 
asked  the  Superior. 

"  My  father  and  mother  have  consented,  though 
we  have  not  learned  anything  further  of  her  birth. 
Some  day  I  believe  we  shall  know  the  truth.  And, 
Reverend  Father,  I  am  assured  of  this — a  flower 
so  sweet  and  pure  as  my  Dorothy  never  sprang 


!!i 


^ 


i  I 


!i 


' 


i,  't 


II'  i 


>; 


276    ube  IRomance  ot  a  Jesuit  /iMssion 

from  evil  soil.  Whatever  the  mystery  of  her  par- 
entage may  be,  it  is  not  one  of  sin." 

"  I  trust  you  may  be  right.  She  is  a  good  girl," 
said  the  Superior. 

"  Ah,  could  you  have  seen  her  before  sorrow 
stole  the  bloom  from  her  cheek!"  said  the  lover 
rapturously.  "  She  was  a  rosebud  girl  then.  Yet, 
methinks,  frail  lily  that  she  is  now,  she  has  a  new 
and  wonderful  beauty." 

"  We  shall  see  the  roses  bloom  again  in  her  fair 
face,"  said  Bressani. 

"  Already  I  perceive  a  change,"  said  the  Supe- 
rior. "  Her  eye  is  bright,  her  step  quick;  she  is 
transformed.  The  poor  child,  why  did  she  refuse 
to  trust  us,  to  confide  in  us?  " 

"  She  is  so  sensitive.  Father.  The  cruel  slurs  on 
her  mother's  name,  for  which  no  justification  can 
be  found;  the  harshness  with  which  she  was  treated 
after  the  death  of  her  tender  foster-mother,  her 
many  sorrov/s,  had  wounded  her  so  deeply  that  she 
could  not  speak  of  them.  She  had  been  deceived; 
moreover,  she  had  been  forced  by  threats  to  take 
a  vow  of  silence.    She  dared  not  speak." 

"  Father,  that  night  on  the  island  she  told  me 
all,"  said  Leon.  "  Up  to  that  time,  I  had  had  no 
suspicion  of  the  truth.  I  besought  her  to  permit 
me  to  repeat  it  to  you,  but  she  would  not.  She  had 
given  me  her  confidence  under  my  promise  of  se- 
crecy.   When  I  was  on  my  way  to  Quebec,  the 


Xc'on's  Succcsstul  Quest 


277 


thought  came  to  me  that  I  might  find — him  whom 
she  loved.  If  he  were  yet  faithful,  his  people,  learn- 
ing how  true  she  had  been,  how  deeply  she  had  suf- 
fered, might  withdraw  their  ban.  In  Quebec  I  heard 
that  far  in  the  wilds  a  party  of  English  people  had 
been  rescued  from  the  Iroquois  by  a  band  of  cou- 
reitrs  des  bois,  and  had  been  conducted  in  safety  to 
the  English  settlemenis  in  the  south.  They  said 
that  several  of  their  number  had  been  killed  or 
carried  away  by  the  savages,  and  that  one  of  the 
captured  was  a  young  English  girl  who  had  been 
betrothed  to  an  elderly  man  of  the  party.  Upon 
this  news,  I  felt  assured  that,  despite  my  promise 
of  silence,  her  safety  required  that  I  acquaint  Father 
Bressani  with  her  story.  I  did  so,  and  he  most 
strictly  cautioned  the  men  who  had  accompanied 
us  to  utter  no  word  concerning  the  white  stranger 
at  the  mission;  for  who  could  tell  whether  the  story 
might  not  be  carried  by  some  wanderer  to  the  set- 
tlements of  the  south. 

"  I  crossed  the  seas  with  documents  for  our  Gen- 
eral. When  I  had  delivered  all  messages  from  the 
mission,  and  received  his  instructions,  I  told  him 
the  story  of  her  whom  we  had  sheltered,  and  be- 
sought his  aid.  He  was  much  interested,  and  dis- 
covered for  me  that  the  family  of  Dermount  is 
noble  and  well  known  in  England,  and,  with  his 
consent,  and  under  his  directions,  I  set  out  to  seek 
Godfrey  Dermount  of  the  Manor  of  St.  Basil. 


Ill 


!|! 


1} 


'<•! 


278    XTbc  IRomancc  ot  a  Jesuit  /ftfssiou 

"  On  a  winter's  day  I  approached  the  gates,  and 
saw  a  young  man  standing  in  the  gate-way.  He 
had  been  about  to  set  forth;  but,  perceiving  me, 
had  awaited  my  coming.  His  face  was  pale  and  sad, 
and  his  appearance  convinced  me  that  he  whom  I 
sought  was  before  me.  ]\ly  dress  was  not  that  of 
his  countrymen,  and  he  looked  on  me  with  some 
wonder. 

*"  *  Are  you  Godfrey  Dermount  of  the  Manor  of 
St.  Basil?  '  I  asked. 

"  '  That  is  my  name,  yon  house  is  my  home,*  he 
replied. 

*' '  I  have  come  many  miles  to  seek  you,'  I  went 
on.  *  Pardon  me,  I  would  ask  a  question.  Have 
you  heard  aught  of  a  maiden,  Dorothy  by  name, 
who  left  your  country  well-nigh  two  years  past?  ' 

"  His  face  grew  white  as  the  dead,  and  he  leaned 
upon  the  gate-post.  But,  quickly  recovering  him- 
self, he  seized  my  arm,  and  said,  '  Man,  have  you 
news  of  her?  In  Heaven's  name,  tell  me.  Does  she 
live? ' 

"  *  I  saw  her  but  a  few  months  past.  I  trust  she 
yet  lives  and  that  all  is  well  with  her.' 

"  *  We  but  lately  heard,'  cried  he,  '  that  she  had 
been  carried  ofT  by  savages.  I  believed  she  was 
dead,  or — reserved  for  a  more  horrible  fate.' 

"  Then  I  told  him  my  story,  and  he  would  have 
me  accompany  him  to  the  house  and  tell  it  to  his 
parents. 


I 


V 


MMMM 


Xebn'0  Successful  Quest 


279 


"  In  a  pleasant  room  we  found  a  tall  and  comely 
lady.  She  rose  when  we  entered,  and  looked  with 
much  surprise  at  Godfrey,  for  the  color  had  come 
to  his  cheeks  and  the  brightness  to  his  eyes.  And 
before  he  had  presented  me  to  her,  he  seized  her 
hands,  and  cried,  *  Mother,  he  has  come  to  tell  me 
of  my  Dorothy.  She  Hves.  She  is  well.  Mother, 
I  go  with  him  to  seek  her,  but  let  me  not  go  with- 
out your  blessing.  When  you  have  heard  his  story 
it  will  win  your  heart  for  her.' 

"  And  truly  her  heart  was  won.  For  while  I  told 
liow  sweet  and  patient,  how  faithful  and  noble  his 
Dorothy  had  been,  his  mother's  tears  dropped  fast, 
and  she  clasped  his  hand  as  he  knelt  beside  her,  and 
gave  him  her  blessing.  His  father  also  came  in  and 
heard  the  tale,  and  gave  a  glad  consent.  They 
overwhelmed  me  with  kindness,  and  sent  many 
messages  of  gratitude  to  you,  Reverend  Father,  and 
soon  as  we  could  set  forth,  sped  us  on  our  way." 

"  And  now.  Father,  I  would  speak  of  our  mar- 
riage," said  Godfrey.  "  We  hope,  we  believe,  that 
you  will  consent  that  it  take  place  to-morrow,  be- 
fore we  set  out  on  our  return." 

"To-morrow!  Wait,  rather,  until  our  arrival  in 
Quebec." 

"  To-morrow,  Father,  as  you  know,  we  part  from 
Leon  de  Charolais,  when  he  begins  his  lonely  jour- 
ney to  seek  the  Hurons  on  the  North  Shore.  It  is 
our  wish  that  he  should  be  with  us;  for  Dorothy 


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280    xTbe  IRomancc  ot  a  3csu(t  /©fssion 

has  a  deeper  regard  for  her  Brother  Leon  than  for 
anyone  else  upon  the  earth — save  myself." 

"  Is  this  your  wish,  Leon?  "  asked  the  Superior 
gently. 

"  It  is  my  heartfelt  wish,  Father." 

"  Then,  my  son,  it  shall  be  granted.  We  will  set 
up  our  altar  in  yonder  grove.  Doubtless,  the  fair 
bride  will  not  regret  that  her  garments  are  but  of 
rough  material." 

"  Reverend  Father,  my  mother  has  sent  to  her 
many  garments  of  goodly  texture.  We  have  car- 
ried them  with  difficulty  over  rough  ways." 

"  Will  your  parents  be  satisfied  that  you  should 
be  joined  in  marriage  by  one  who  is  not  of  their 
fakh?" 

"  They  will,  Father." 

When  the  Superior  had  questioned  Godfrey,  and 
was  satisfied  that  he  and  his  betrothed  had  been 
baptized,  he  appointed  for  the  two  certain  medita- 
tions and  prayers  to  precede  the  sacrament  of  mat- 
rimony, and  directed  the  lover  to  permit  the  fair 
girl  to  withdraw  and  remain  for  some  hours  in  re- 
treat. 

Then  the  good  news  was  sent  out,  and  the 
women  were  bidden  to  begin  to  make  ready  a  mar- 
riage feast,  and  deck  a  bridal  bower  in  a  grove. 


XXXII 

H  forest  Celebration 

"  Leon,"  said  the  Superior  when  he  was  alone 
with  the  young  man,  "  when  our  General  directed 
that  you  spend  three  years  in  the  service  of  the 
Hurons,  he  was  not  aware  that  the  mission  had 
been  of  necessity  abandoned.  He  had  received 
only  the  information  from  Father  Bressani  that  he 
would  return  to  us  with  armed  men  and  stores. 
Doubtless,  the  Reverend  Father,  Piccolomini,  gave 
the  order  concerning  you  through  his  desire  to  ful- 
fil the  wishes  of  our  late  lamented  Superior,  Caraf- 
fa."  Ragueneau  bent  his  head  and  crossed  himself 
at  the  mention  of  Caraffa's  name.  "  I  am  con- 
vinced that,  were  he  informed  of  the  circumstances, 
he  would  give  you  permission  to  return  to  France, 
there  to  remain  until  your  ordination.  Neverthe- 
less, as  he  has  said  that,  by  special  dispensation, 
your  service  in  the  wilderness  shall  be  regarded  as  a 
part  of  your  course,  I  do  not  command  your  return 
with  us;  I  leave  you  free  to  do  as  you  will;  this,  I 
am  convinced,  would  be  the  course  of  the  General 
were  he  informed  in  full.    Withdraw  now  to  the 

38x 


282    ube  iRomauce  ot  a  Sesuit  /iMssion 


i' 


h 


I 


) 


forest  for  meditation  and  prayer.  Do  not  fail  to 
take  into  account  the  loneliness  of  the  life  you  pro- 
pose. Hitherto,  our  missionaries  have  had  some 
companionship  with  men  of  their  race;  you  will  be 
aloi  e  in  the  wilderness,  a  solitary  witness  of  the 
faith  to  a  scattered  and  vanishing  people.  We,  too, 
will  pray  that  you  may  be  led  to  a  right  judgment. 
If  you  inform  me  to-night  that  your  decision  is  to 
return  with  us  to  Quebec,  there  to  help  us  in  the 
work  with  our  Indians,  I  shall  believe  that  God  has 
guided  you  to  that  decision.  But  if  you  still  feel 
convinced  that  your  duty  is  to  minister  to  the  few 
of  our  scattered  flock  whom  you  will  seek  on  the 
deserted  shores,  go  to  them,  our  blessings  and  our 
prayers  will  go  with  you." 

"  Father,  I  have  thought  and  prayed;  I  have  a 
conviction  that  will  not  be  changed  by  further 
thought.  I  longed  to  see  France  once  more;  but 
when  I  heard  at  Quebec  of  the  death  of  my  father  I 
felt  that  the  tie  tliat  had  bound  me  to  my  own  land 
was  broken.  For  the  few  who  are  left  in  the  wil- 
derness without  a  guide  I  can  do  more  than  for  the 
greater  numbers  in  Quebec,  who  will  have  other 
and  wiser  teachers.  I  believe  that  I  can  follow 
fome  of  those  whom  I  knew,  and  who,  I  trust,  will 
rejoice  to  see  me.  With  your  permission,  Wene- 
kin  will  return  with  me.  I  have  counted  the  cost. 
I  know  it  will  be  lonely  sometimes;  yet  as  I  am 
persuaded  that  I  am  called  to  that  work,  I  will  not 


a  forest  Celebration 


283 


turn  back.  I  will  now,  as  you  advise,  withdraw  for 
meditation  and  prayer.  I  need  your  prayers  that  I 
may  be  strong,  that  my  faith  fail  not." 

Leon  de  Charolais  spent  many  hours  that  night, 
deep  in  the  woods,  wrestling  with  doubts  that 
pressed  him  sore,  striving  to  still  the  pain  in  his 
heart  at  thought  of  parting  with  Dorothy  forever, 
to  rejoice  in  the  joy  that  his  hand  had  brought  her. 
For  though  he  had  set  himself  so  resolutely  to  do 
his  duty  as  he  saw  it,  to  try  to  fulfil  the  pledges  he 
had  given;  as  of  old,  his  faith  was  weak,  he  was  be- 
set by  questionings.  He  had  begun  to  understand, 
dimly  yet,  but  far  more  clearly  than  he  had  once 
understood,  something  of  the  mystery,  the  purify- 
ing power  of  sacrifice.  Were  it  possible  to  take 
the  sorrow  from  his  life,  to  be  as  though  it  had 
never  touched  him,  he  would  not  have  it  so.  His 
youthful  joyousness  of  heart  had  left  him;  yet  in  its 
place  something  had  come  that  had  made  him  a 
braver  and  a  purer  man,  his  life  a  richer  life. 

In  the  morning  the  bridal  bower  was  seen, 
decked  with  wild  flowers.  There  were  crimson 
roses  and  white  lilies  from  the  forest,  and  from  an 
abandoned  beaver  meadow  had  come  scarlet  lobe- 
lias, calceolarias — white,  pink,  yellow,  and  crimson 
— wild  iris,  tiger  lilies,  and  trilliums. 

To  Nialona  had  been  given  the  honor  of  dressing 
the  bride.  Here  and  there  on  the  soft  white  dress 
and  veil  she  had  fastened  a  spray  of  roses  and  ferns; 


284  Zbc  IRomance  ot  a  Jesuit  /l>fssfon 


11 


\ 


and  a  rose  blush  tinged  the  cheeks  that  had  been 
so  pale. 

The  Huron  women,  who  had  never  beheld  any- 
thing so  beautiful  as  that  bridal  dress,  were  as  chil- 
dren in  their  surprise  and  delight.  And  priests  and 
laymen  alike  gratified  the  bridegroom  by  the  asser- 
tion that  a  lovelier  maid  had  never  been  wedded. 

Dorothy  stood  alone  with  De  Charolais,  and 
looked  into  his  face  with  her  joy  lighting  her  beau- 
tiful eyes,  "  O,  my  Brother  Leon,  my  true  and  noble 
Brother  Leon,"  she  said,  "  why  must  you,  who 
have  brought  happiness  to  us,  live  and  suffer  alone? 
And  yet,  yet,  there  is  something  in  your  face,  in 
your  eyes,  that  I  never  saw  there  before.  It  re- 
minds me  of  words  I  once  heard  niy — my  father 
read,  *  A  Conqueror  returning  from  his  wars.'  " 

"  Do  not  sorrow  for  me,  my  Sister  Dorothy.  If 
it  be  possible,  let  me  hear  of  you;  you  will  be  happy; 
in  that  I  shall  find  happiness.  May  all  marriage 
blessings  be  granted  you;  joy  and  peace,  and  no  re- 
grets. God  bless  you,  God  guard  you,  God  keep 
you,  my — Sister  Dorothy." 

His  face  was  pale,  but  calm  and  smiling,  when 
Ragueneau  said  the  words  that  made  Dorothy 
Wynne  and  Godfrey  Dermount  man  and  wife.  By 
the  Superior's  direction,  she  gave,  as  her  maiden 
name,  that  of  her  adopted  parents. 

At  the  wedding  feast — the  noon  dinner  of  which 
all  partook  before  setting  out  on  the  journey — it 


H\ 


i 


in 

lad  been 

eld  any- 
2  as  cliil- 
iests  and 
he  asser- 
sdded. 
lais,  and 
ler  beau- 
nd  noble 
oil,  who 
er  alone? 
■  face,  in 
.  It  re- 
ly father 


a  fotcBt  Celebration 


285 


>  )> 


irs. 
othy.  n 
•e  happy ; 
marriage 
id  no  re- 
od  keep 

g,  when 
Dorothy 
^ife.  By 
maiden 

of  which 
rney — it 


was  noticeable  that  De  Gharolais  was  as  full  of  life 
and  interest  as  anyone  at  the  board. 

When  Dorothy  went  to  her  tent  to  change  her 
wedding  dress  for  a  darker  one  that  her  new  rela- 
tives had  sent  her,  Leon  and  the  young  husband 
walked  apart.  There  was  much  work  to  do  in  the 
preparation  for  departure,  but  they  were  excused. 

For  awhile  they  talked  of  their  plans;  but  there 
was  something  in  Godfrey's  mind  that  he  longed, 
yet  hesitated,  to  say.  A  call  came;  the  fleet  was 
ready  to  set  out.  Then  Godfrey  grasped  the  hand 
of  his  friend.  "  Leon,  I  know  your  heart,  the  sor- 
row of  it,  all  that  you  have  borne  and  suffered  for 
our  sakes.  O,  my  friend,  my  friend,  I  would  that  I 
could  repay  you;  some  good  day  may  God  reward 
you." 

Leon  did  not  answer.  His  eyes  were  dim,  and 
Godfrey  knew  that  his  thought  was  too  deep  for 
words. 

Presently  Dorothy  and  her  husband  took  their 
places  in  their  canoe  over  which  Bernard  Gautier 
and  the  Huron  boys  had  made  a  canopy  to  protect 
the  bride  from  the  glare  of  the  summer  sun. 

As  they  went  down  the  river,  they  looked  back 
many  times  to  wave  their  last  adieux  to  Leon,  who 
stood  with  Wenekin  on  the  lonely  shore.  He 
smiled  bravely  above  the  pain  in  his  heart,  and 
watched  and  waved  to  them  in  return  till  they 
passed  from  his  sight. 


I 


286    xibe  iRoman-e  ot  a  Jesuit  /IMsdioti 

Godfrey  ceased  to  ply  the  paddle,  for  Dorothy's 
cheeks  were  wet  with  tears. 

**  What  is  it,  dear  heart?  "  he  asked,  though  he 
divined  the  cause. 

"  It  is  for  our  Brother  Leon.  Ah,  why  must  he 
be  lonely,  and,  I  fear,  very  sad,  too,  when  so  much 
happiness  has  been  given  to  us?    It  is  hard." 

"  Yes,  dear  heart,"  said  Godfrey,  bending  to 
wipe  away  her  tears;  "  it  is  indeed  very  hard.  But 
our  eyes  see  only  a  little  way.  In  days  to  come,  he 
may  receive  a  joy  of  which  we  have  no  foresight 
now.  Remember,  we,  too,  have  sorrowed,  and  with- 
out hope;  and  our  joy  is  so  much  the  deeper  by 
reason  of  that  sorrow." 


XXXIII 


TLo  l)im  tbat  ^vercometb 

On  an  Easter  morning,  Dorothy  Dermount  sat 
with  her  husband  by  the  cradle  of  tiheir  boy,  "  Leon 
Godfrey."    They  had  written  to  Leon  of  the  birth 
of  the  child,  and  that  they  had  given  him  the  be- 
loved name.    Months  afterward  they  received  his 
letter  in  return,  and  a  rug  of  fur  for  the  infant's  cot. 
In  the  ehree  years  since  they  had  parted,  they  had 
heard  from  him  whenever  it  was  possible  for  him  to 
send  them  a  message.    On  this  morning,  a  belated 
letter  had  come  to  them,  and  they  talked  of  it  while 
they  watched  the  young  Leon.    It  had  been  written 
many  weeks  before,  in  the  depths  of  the  forest, 
sent  to  Quebec  by  Indians  who  were  carrying  mes- 
sages to  the  Superior;  fhence  across  the  seas  by  the 
first  ship  that  left  that  shore.    Early  in  the  sum- 
mer, by  command  of  the  General.  De  Charolais 
would  return  to  France,  and  remain  there  until  his 
ordination;  when  it  was  probable  that  he  would 
agam  be  sent  as  a  missionary  to  the  Hurons     He 
would  surely  hasten  to  visit  his  friends  as  soon  as 
he  could  gain  permission.    He  had  never  written  a 
word  of  complaint;  but  they  rejoiced  in  the  brig'hter 

287 


/] 


f   i 


If 


,1  •' 

if  1 


I  ' 


288    Zbc  IRomance  ot  a  Jesuit  ADidsfon 

tone  of  this  letter.  They  were  ambitious  for  him, 
that  he  should  win  high  place  in  his  Church. 
Surely,  they  said,  the  Superior  General  of  the  Jes- 
uits would  not  send  a  man  of  his  parts  back  to  the 
wilderness.  The  child  woke,  and  Dorothy  took  it 
in  her  arms,  and  prattled  to  it,  in  baby  words,  of  the 
Uncle  Leon  who  would  come  so  soon,  and  how 
father  and  mother  would  delight  to  greet  him. 

Early  on  that  Easter  morning,  Leon  de  Charolais 
rose  from  his  bed  on  the  ground,  to  try  to  reach  a 
Huron  camp,  where  he  would  give  an  instruction 
suitable  to  the  day.  In  the  t'hree  years  that  had 
passed  since  he  had  stood  on  the  Ottawa's  shores, 
straining  his  eyes  till  the  last  canoe  had  passed 
from  his  sight,  he  had  never  seen  a  man  of  his  own 
race,  his  heart  had  never  been  cheered  by  converse 
with  a  friend,  other  than  an  Indian  friend.  He  had 
endured  hunger  and  cold,  but  these  were  nought 
beside  the  hunger  of  the  heart  for  human  compan- 
ionship. He  had  had  some  hours  of  spiritual  exalta- 
tion, when  he  felt  strengthened  to  press  on  and  en- 
dure; but  he  had  passed  many  hours  of  despond- 
ency. 

He  had  seen  in  the  lives  of  his  people  some  fruit 
of  the  truths  he  had  taught;  but  sometimes  those 
to  whose  service  he  had  given  his  life  had  turned 
from  him  with  mockery  and  derision,  or  had  grossly 
deceived  him.  Yet  some  of  his  men  loved  him  well, 
followed  him  faithfully.       He  knew  that  he  had 


f 


Zo  f)im  tbat  ®t>ercometb 


289 


cheered  the  dying  and  strengthened  the  living; 
and,  in  moments  of  discouragement,  remembering 
these,  he  was  nerved  to  go  forward  again.  But  he 
longed  with  all  t'he  longing  of  his  human  heart  for 
the  grasp  of  a  manly  hand,  the  cheer  of  a  com- 
panion's voice,  for  such  counsel  and  sympathy  as 
he  had  had  in  the  first  months  of  his  life  at  the 
mission. 

Did  his  thoughts  ever  turn  to  Dorothy?  Many 
times,  but  not  often  with  pain.  He  longed  to  meet 
her  again,  to  hear  the  music  of  her  voice,  to  see  with 
his  own  eyes  her  happiness — the  happiness  she  had 
received  through  him.  Many  times  he  had  fallen 
on  his  knees  in  thanksgiving  for  his  victory  on  that 
night  on  the  island,  that  he  had  been  kept  from 
uttering  any  word  that  might  have  revealed  to  her 
the  evil  suggestion  that  had  come  to  him.  Had  she 
known  that  even  for  a  moment  he  in  whom  she  had 
placed  her  pure  trust  had  thought  to  betray  it, 
what  revulsion  of  soul  would  have  come  to  her,  how 
he  might  have  shaken  her  faith  in  God  and  man. 
And  so,  for  her  sake,  and  >his  own,  he  was  thankful 
that  he  had  never  fallen  from  his  high  place  in  her 
heart  as  brother  and  friend. 

When  he  rose  on  that  Easter  morning,  he  saw 
the  leafless  trees  about  him,  the  dark  trunks  and 
mouldering  logs,  damp  and  sodden  from  the  melt- 
ing snow.  It  was  a  bleak,  gray  morning,  and  its 
bleakness   accentuated    his    loneliness.      But    he 


Li'"  I' 


w 


290  ube  IRomance  ot  a  Seauft  fr^t^i^dion 

pushe'd  on  bravely,  and  presently  he  was  cheered  by 
thought  of  the  welcome  of  'his  people.  As  he 
walked,  he  began  to  sing  a  hymn  of  St.  Francois 
Xavier,  one  that  he  loved  because  it  had  been  a 
favorite  with  Brebeuf. 


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111 


"  My  God  I  love  Thee:  not  because 
I  hope  for  Heaven  thereby; 
Nor  yet  because  if  I  love  not, 
I  must  forever  die. 

"  But,  O  my  Jesus,  Thou  didst  me 
Upon  the  cross  embrace; 
For  me  didst  bear  the  nails  and  spear 
And  manifold  disgrace; 

"  And  griefs  and  torments  numberless. 
And  sweat  of  agony; 
E'en  death  itself,  and  all  for  me, 
Who  was  Thine  enemy. 

"  And  so,  O  blessed  Jesus  Christ, 
Should  I  not  love  Thee  well? 
Not  for  the  hope  of  gaining  Heaven, 
Nor  of  escaping  Hell; 

"  Not  with  the  hope  of  winning  aught. 
Nor  gaining  a  reward; 
But  as  Thyself  hast  loved  me, 
O,  ever  loving  Lord." 

He  could  not  give  it  the  note  of  deep  spiritual 
feeling  with  which  Brebeuf  had  sung.  He  loved  it 
because  it  recalled  the  voice  of  his  friend.  As  he 
went  on,  he  asked  again  the  question  that  he  had 
asked  many  times:   Why  had  he  so  little  spiritual 


Zo  f)im  tbf!t  ^percometb 


291 


fervor  when  he  had  given  a  heart  of  love  to  his  fel- 
low-man? Why  did  the  light  shine  for  him  so  dimly 
when  he  had  sought  it  so  earnestly?  He  could  not 
find  t'he  answer;  but  some  day,  he  believed,  the 
answer  would  be  given.  He  would  understand 
why  he  had  been  permitted  to  wander  so  often  in 
darkness.  He  thought  of  S(  Peter,  who  had 
thrice  denied  his  Lord,  yet  Peter  had  been  com- 
mended by  the  Master,  a  •■  haa  give*,  ftis  life  for 
Plim.  Leon  had  never  denied  with  his  lips;  God 
only  and  his  own  soul  knew  ih-^  doubts  that  beset 
him. 

He  reached  the  borders  of  Lake  Huron,  where, 
on  the  dark  waters,  great  cakes  of  ice  floated.  He 
stood  on  the  shore,  and  watched  the  smaller  blocks 
rise  and  fall  with  the  waves.  He  did  not  see  the 
foes  that  lay  in  ambush,  was  not  conscious  of  an 
enemy  at  hand,  until  he  heard  the  Whiz  of  an  arrow 
through  the  air,  followed  almost  instantly  by  a 
stinging  pain  in  his  side.  He  turned  to  defend  him- 
self; but  arrow  followed  arrow  till  his  fur  coat  vvas 
pierced  and  cut  in  many  places.  Faint  and  bleed- 
ing, he  sank  on  his  knees.  His  assailants  knew  th^t 
he  was  now  powerless  to  escape  them,  and  ran  to 
summon  others  to  behold  their  work. 

The  clouds  parted,  and  the  dull  waters  danced  in 
the  morning  sunshine.  The  glory  of  it  touched  his 
glazing  eyes.  There  came  to  him  the  words  of  the 
dying  Stephen:  "  I  see  Heaven  opened,  and  the  Son 


".  eK'~-??^^-''^ir^.^r!»_-«3»«.W>rv(!'^.-arjt: 


pi 

I  "if 


II 


292    Ube  IRomance  ot  a  Jesuit  Aidsion 

of  Man  standing  on  the  right  hand  of  God."  Was 
it  but  the  vision  of  delirium? 

Then,  as  if  spoken  in  his  ear  by  some  one  stand- 
ing by,  came  words  that  he  had  heard  many  times 
— the  words  of  another  soldier  of  the  Cross:  "  I 
have  fought — a  good  fight,  I  have — finished 
my  course — I  have — kept — the  faith — hence- 
forth  " 

Sight  dimmed,  hearing  failed,  and  he  sank  gently 
on  a  little  knoll  of  earth. 

The  savages  came  whooping  through  the  forest 
and  surrounded  him.  But  they  stepped  back  in 
amazement,  for  the  dying  lips  smiled,  the  eyes  that 
opened  once  more  were  illumined  for  a  moment  by 
a  great  joy;  the  hand,  feebly  raised,  pointed  upward. 
Then  the  hand  dropped,  the  eyes  closed,  and  the 
life  on  earth  was  ended. 


i 


d 


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WITH  THE  WILD  FLOWERS,  from  Pussy-willow 
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for  the  Beginner.  By  W.  I.  Lincoln  Adaius,  Editor 
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Contents.— I.  Apparatus.  II.  In  the  Field.  III.  In  the 
Dark  Room.  IV.  Printing  and  Toning.  V.  Portraiture. 
VI.  Instantaneous  Photography.  VII.  Flash-light  Photog- 
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WITHIN  COLLEGE  WALLS.  By  Charles  Franklim 
Thwino,  President  of  Adelbert  College  and  of 
Western  Reserve  University ;  Author  of  "Ameri- 
can Colleges :  their  Students  and  Work,"  *  *  Beading 
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VL  Play  in  College.  YII.  Simplicity  and  Enrichment  of  Life 
In  College.  VIlL  The  College  and  the  Church.  IX.  The 
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College  Graduate. 

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clusions drawn  from  his  personal  experience  and  observation 
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cnliehtened  statement  of  college  aims,  tendencies,  and  possi- 
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"An  earnest,  eloquent,  and  convincing  vindication  of  the 
value  of  a  college  education,  not  only  as  a  means  of  ennobling 
and  enrichiug  the  individual  character  and  thus  Indirectly 
benefiting  the  community^  but  also,  from  a  utilitarian  point  of 
view,  as  thci  best  means  of  fitting  a  man  to  succeed  In  whatever 
calling  In  life  he  may  choose." — Cleveland  Leader. 

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